A distant memory
by olansamuelle
Summary: When revealed, the smallest truth can cause a whole legacy to tremble. No woman or man, slave or Roman will escape it. ETA: Fic has been edited to correct format and make some adjustments, for a sequel is in the way. Nothing substantial, yet necessary.
1. Part I: A beast never to be leashed

_**Title: A Distant Memory**_

**Pairing/s**: canon pairings.

**Rating**: mature for safety. It is a Spartacus fic.

**Spoilers**: Yes. Although the fic ends up establishing its own canon (the fic was plotted and drafted after watching episode 10 and before the finale aired), it runs closely along the show's first season storyline.

**Disclaimer**: not mine. (neither are the quotes taken from episodes for use on this fic: because the writers are made of awesomesauce, as everything in this show)

**Author's notes**: plotted and written before watching "Old Wounds" (episode 11) thus using the first ten episodes as canon. The story jumps a little back and forth in time.

_**OOOOO**_

_**I. "A beast never to be leashed"**_

_**OO**_

_"I can control her!"_

_("Whore")_

_**OO**_

Ilithyia was a wild beast under the façade of a delicate patrician, layer worn with skilful deceit. But Lucretia had seen the animal beneath, the one relishing flesh and blood, and had managed to set a collar around her neck.

At least for a moment.

You cannot leash the wild and pretend to tame it unscathed. Lucretia had learnt that lesson far too late. No. She could not control her.

Lucretia had always borne an outstanding ability to place judgement on people, hardly ever failing, that being one of Quintus' most appreciated virtues about her. He had married a true judge on human nature, he liked to say, pride colouring his voice. And he had been right indeed, very few times had she been wrong on someone.

Ilithyia had been, she realized, one of those rare mistakes. And a fatal one, indeed. But on the brink of death, beaten animals could still deliver fatal blows.

Weakened by the wound, Lucretia left the pain on the back of her mind and clutched the hidden note in her hand as she waited for the slave to come, focusing all her will on having those words delivered to their rightful owner.

Legatus Claudius Glaber.

_**OOO**_

_"You taunt an injured snake, one that may yet turn and strike."_

_("Party Favours")_

_**OO**_

Wine still in hand, Ilithyia watched as the guards took the Thracian away, and two slave girls and the bewildered trainer silently carried the corpse of the other out from their sight. Other slaves cleaned the blood. Excusing herself, she left her friends' marvelled chatter and walked towards a more silent area of the atrium.

There was a satisfied smile curving her lips, but still Ilithyia was not content. _How deep can you wound an animal before it meets its death?_, she wondered. Seeing him suffer while his friend plummeted lifeless on the floor had been a gift she could not even dream of the week before as she stood before Licinia's dead body. Yet the sight of Spartacus was living remainder of memories she wanted buried deep. The death of the slave was primal in such aim.

But the Thracian seemed to bear the pain with endless endurance, refusing to die each and every time he was invited to dwell in the Underwold, where he belonged, burning in Tartarus for all eternity, under Tisiphone's lashing whip.

Yet as much as she desired to, Ilithyia could not kill him, only hope for death to meet the slave in the arena if not inside the ludus, as she had seen impossible to happen, much to the cost of her own gladiator's life. The look of the beaten and castrated savage still sent shivers to her spine, his stubborn silence until he drew his last breath up on that cross at first confusing, then irksome.

The Gaul, in his regret, had proven his honour towards Spartacus, not to her. Segovax sought his death as the means for justice in return of the offense committed against a 'brother', and such could only be attained if he spoke not of the tongue that commanded him to kill the champion. It also gave him the only freedom he would get now, choosing when to die, aware that no slave stood over a Roman, knowing that exposing her would have led him nowhere but the mines. Ilithyia held her title as daughter of a senator and wife of a legatus as powerful influence, and she had made sure the slave knew of that too when she commanded him to kill the Thracian.

Danger loomed around her. None but Numerius could suspect of her hand in the night's events, but Licinia's death was not a thing to be erased from mind, especially not from that of the lanista and Lucretia. The way she had manoeuvred her… Ilithyia was disgusted at herself for having been so weak in mind when taunting Lucretia with her gladiator. There was still no tempest, and all she had been asked to do was to gain favour for them, and have Gaius grant patronage to the House of Batiatus. Still, securing this loose end was to be—

"You seem lost in thought."

Dragged from her mind to the villa, Ilithyia turned her head surprised, meeting Solonius' annoying perfect smile, which she promptly returned, faking the same kindness, swift mind seeing opportunity in the shape of the lanista. "My good Solonius, you flatter me with your presence."

The man slightly bowed his head in acknowledgement. "It is a shame that yours is not guarded with your husband by your side."

Gaius, the one man she could still not confront, fearing her lips would part under the unbearable weigh of the shame she had brought on their names. Keeping those thoughts on the darkest corners of her mind, Ilithyia dressed her outside façade with a smile and returned kind words. "Shame it is, indeed," she agreed. Then, she pulled a calculated serious frown. "But it pales in comparison with the somberness laid upon your name under this very roof," she added, casually looking towards Batiatus while she sipped from her wine, hiding satisfaction while seeing Solonius' reaction to her remark. The comment had stung, quite as planned. The lanista may own a guileful mind married to a tongue of gold, but a very readable face.

"Quick rising fortunes often blind the bearer of the hands amassing them," commented the man.

Seed planted, Ilithyia proceeded to poison the root. "Even more when falling into hands lacking a proper gens." Batiatus' rival eyed her, probably in suspicion, she mused.

And indeed, suspicious he was. But Solonius had to admit, the young patrician had thrown a good bait. So he took it. Yet without biting. "Your friendship with the wife of Batiatus is well known outside these walls," he said throwing more implied meanings than direct words.

"A mere distraction over my husband's endless absence," she casually replied. "When he finally arrives, Capua will be but a distant memory in my mind."

"Your presence will be missed, if I may be so bold to add," he added politely, and turned to leave, seeing he would get nothing from the impertinent woman but offenses on his lower station, oblivious to the nerves taking hold of her.

Unbeknownst to him, it was Ilithyia who sought favour. "Magistrate Calavius..." a sideways eye and she breathed, owner again of his full attention. "He owes gratitude to Batiatus."

Solonius nodded curtly. "Forced by the love he has for his son Numerius, ignited by youthful passion with the games and the Champion of Capua."

"The young man thrives for blood," she agreed. _And for all the pleasures his manhood can reach_, she mentally added to herself. "But it will soon pass." She made a pause, patiently waiting for the lanista to look at her so he could see the gentle smile on her face. "When his eyesight is directed towards a more righteous path, the blood thirst will be supplanted by the art, the knowledge and the power. I am sure that when Solonius' house regains its stolen glory, young Numerius will look towards this ludus no more. Spartacus is nothing but a fleeting light, soon to fade away," she added not hiding her disgust, using her well-known hostility towards the Thracian in her favour. "Then Calavius will lead his son to where he really wants him to be. Under a proper roof." A pause. "Of course," she remarked, "I could...quicken the inevitable."

Solonius looked inside that woman, but he found a wall. Her face was unreadable, leaving him only speculation about her true motives. If he wanted to know, he would have to ask. The daughter of Senator Albinius was revealing herself cunning and sly like few. He just hoped it was not a serpent ready to bite what lay beneath the smile. "And what would that..."

Ilithyia saved him the shame of asking a woman. Patrician or not. Daughter of a senator or not, she was a woman. And she wanted his favour. She turned her eyes to a group gathered to their left, leading Solonius to do the same.

The lanista found only slaves, and turned eyes towards Ilithyia in mild confusion. Yet the woman was indeed looking at them. At one particular slave. Solonius froze.

"The bearded slave. I saw you having words with him." Ilithyia turned her eyes back to Solonius, who remained still and silent, yet failing to conceal the clenched teeth to her alert eyes. With cold calm, she suppressed a smirk and used her casual tone to ask a simple question. "Is he a man of trust?"

Solonius pondered. But Ilithyia's mention of Calavius ringed strongly in his mind. "He is," he finally said. "When filled with enough coin."

Ilithyia nodded. "Gratitude."

"To be returned, I hope," he said hazarding the favour in return.

Ilithyia leaned discreetly and let her mouth come close to his ear with a reassuring whisper. "Have the slave meet me outside, and you will have words with Calavius before this very night ends. And witnessed by Batiatus himself."

_If you plant a poisoned seed, eventually the__ whole garden will die._

_**OOO**_

Ashur walked towards the woman waiting outside, troubled by his own acts. He had been sailing dangerous waters lately, and the thought of finding a way out of Capua had began to fill his mind with growing urgency. He knew the Roman who had summoned him was a powerful Roman, daughter of a Senator and wife to Legatus Glaber. Perhaps she could be his way to safety, or his path to damnation. Either way, he felt conveyed to go. A rat did not die until it swallowed the poisoned food.

The woman seemed absent, and he coughed to make himself noticed. "You called for me."

Ashur eyed her sideways. Her mind seemed absent, sight somewhere beyond Capua's limits. But soon he was proved wrong. It was not reflection, nor meandering thoughts. It was focus, as her words quickly revealed. "You seem to be a very valuable hand to your dominus."

"I do not deserve such kind words," he replied.

"Are they not true?," she casually asked, looking directly to him.

Startled by such raw attitude, one he had never seen before on a woman of her station, not even Domina, Ashur lost his temperance for a moment and looked into those eyes. There was fire burning behind them. "Dominus trusts me. He provides for me," he added trying to sound confident in his words.

"And yet you tend to other hands to fill your purse."

The Syrian swallowed hard and remained silent. His face grew pale and he silently thanked the absence of daylight threatening to expose his shame and fear. The moon, however, revealed a smile on the woman's face when she looked to the heavens.

"Worry not. I am not to be the one unveiling your secrets," she said, guiding her eyes back to the slave. "Do you know who my husband is?"

Ashur nodded bowing his head, wishing not to raise it again.

"He could use a helping hand in which to trust."

Finally the food was laid in front of the rat. Whether it was poisoned or not, only time would tell.

"Your skills fall short in Capua. They deserve a grander arena." An intended pause. "They deserve to serve Rome, not a simple lanista."

The rat took the food in its hands. "What would you like this humble slave to do..." And ate it. "...Domina."

Ilithyia smirked to herself and smiled to the slave.

"I want to know everything about Crixus."

_**OOOOO**_


	2. Part II: Shames bore on the inside

**Chapter warnings: **it falls within "Spartacus: Blood and Sand" standards. Language and sexual content.

**Spoilers**: **YES**. At least up to episode ten (inclusive), "_Party Favors_". In this chapter, direct spoilers on episode 5 (_Shadow Games_) and part of the action (third section) set in between episodes 10 and first half of 11, plus a mention of an event seen of the trailer of episode 12 (_Revelations_).

**Disclaimer**: not mine. (neither are the quotes taken from episodes for use on this fic: because the writers are made of awesomesauce, as everything in this show)

**Author's notes**: plotted before watching "_Old Wounds_" (episode 11) thus using the first ten episodes as canon. The story jumps a little back and forth in time.

_**OOOOO**_

_**II. Shames bore **__**inside**_

_**OOOOO**_

Daughter of Lucius Siculus, owner of a latifundium in the bigger island of the province of Sicilia, Lucretia never knew the warmth of a mother's care, for hers had perished at childbirth, and her father had never taken another as wife, thus the only women Lucretia had known had been the slaves. Life in the garner of Rome meant rising with the sun and halting at dawn. Lucretia had been raised in discipline, trait imprinted on her for the rest of her life.

Such life and the absence of a mother had shaped her character in a very unique way, one that had drawn Batiatus towards her as soon as he had met those piercing blue eyes that day in Capua's market, where, following his father's commands, he had gone in order to acquire a new batch of slaves.

Lucretia's father, knowing of his daughter's desire to reach mainland's shores, had sold the villa and bought a property on the fertile plains of Capua, finally leaving Sicily much to his only daughter's delight.

A stranger's decision upon which Quintus Lentulus Batiatus would lay gratitude for as long as his heart intended to beat.

The young lanista had fallen in love instantly, and, owner of a quick mind gratefully synchronized with his tongue, had soon invited father and daughter to visit the ludus, one destined for greatness, his family name to be cheered some day from the roaring crowd of the seven hilled core of the Republic.

Under the layer of raw beauty, Batiatus had found a marvel. Brought up far from any city, surrounded by slaves and the brute hands of the men working the land, the young woman moved around the ludus like a fish in water.

All of the women Batiatus had bedded had run away from the prospect of a life in a lonely villa surrounded by nothingness.

Lucretia had not.

Soon after meeting her, his own father would urge him to fuck her, knowing his son could not socially afford more, and correctly seeing the woman as a diamond in raw form.

He fucked Lucretia.

He shared his ambitions with her.

And it was glorious.

_**OOO**_

_"...pray for the Gods for many more to come." _

_"Domina."_

_(Shadow Games)_

_**OO**_

The vision of Crixus falling on the arena with the giant behind, prepared to take the final blow...Her heart had almost stopped beating, only to resume its pace harder. Faster.

Lucretia did not recall another time when her blood had flowed with such rush through her body.

Half dead, yet still grasping the thread his life stumbled upon, with his hand firmly pressing the open wound from which his insides wanted to escape, Crixus had been taken to the medicus, leaving a trail of blood on the sand.

Lucretia ached to see him, yet her status had turned into a curse. And she felt ashamed, both for having that sentiment and for her envy towards a simple slave: she would send Naevia in her place, and see that Crixus was well cared for.

It would be Naevia's hands, not hers, the ones laying upon him, caressing his perfect skin and tending to his wounds. Naevia's voice, not hers, whispering words of comf-

"Lucretia?"

A voice reached her ears, bringing her back from her thoughts. The voice was not that of her champion, but of her loving husband, instantly placing a smile to her otherwise distraught face, as soon as she saw the true concern bringing his eyebrows closer in a worried frown.

"Your mind has been absent ever since we left the arena, are you unwell?," he softly asked.

She managed a smile.

Lucretia was deeply worried about Crixus' well-being, but also upset with her husband, too quick to cheer Spartacus' name on the arena, suddenly favouring the Thracian slave. "I'm fine, Quintus," she said placing a confirming hand on his left cheek, hand soon warmed by his own.

Lucretia loved her husband's touch.

"It has been an eventful day, Lucretia," he said. "Your thoughts on Crixus?" Batiatus knew his wife was warmly fond of the Gaul, for he had brought much glory to their house.

Lucretia stared into nothingness. _Crixus. Not 'Champion of Capua'._ Composing herself once more, she fought the urge of inappropriate words finding their way to her tongue. Her grief was to be shared with no one but herself. "He fought like a true champion, Quintus," she replied keeping her tone neutral. "Had it not been for his swift mind on the arena, Spartacus would be dead right now."

That no one remembered Crixus holding his shield to blind the giant giving the Thracian his undeserved opportunity, bothered and angered her immensely. The crowd, cheering Spartacus' name. How soon they forgot. But they were plebs, one should not expect anything else. The pleb wanted blood, and blood is what they had been given. But her husband, destined for great things. To see him blinded, forgetting so quickly, giving the Thracian Crixus' title.

And now they called the slave 'the bringer of rain'. Had it not been for the sun delaying his departure and Crixus' good use of it, both him and Spartacus would be dead now, their fortune and name lying lifeless on the sand too. It had been the sun that had saved them, skilfully manoeuvred by their true champion, for Jupiter's cock! Was she the only one seeing the truth? They should be praying to Apollo, not showing gratitude to a traitor to Rome for the changing fortune, even if the Greek slave was the bearer of the hand that slew the giant. If their wealth was suddenly bound to the name of a gladiator, their glory would plummet as soon as the Thracian fell. Why would not Quintus see that, escaped her reason, but they had thrived for economical relief for so long, that she could not deny either the enthusiasm that filled her husband's soul.

Still.

Crixus.

"Like a true champion," she repeated.

Batiatus sighed. "He did, Lucretia. But the crowd only saw the man who killed The Shadow of Death." The lanista did not find the comfort he sought inside Lucretia with his words. With a slight move of his head, he commanded the slaves. Soon, Naevia and the other girls started to gently undress his wife of her brooches, bracelets and palla, revealing her exuberant shapes beneath the stola. He breathed deep before resuming his speech, his mind studying how to bring his absentminded wife's thighs and pleasures that followed towards his groin. "It is the crowd that keeps us alive, Lucretia."

"Right. The pleb of Rome," she mocked in disgust.

"Only to let us climb our way up the social scale, and see us rise among Rome's finest, as we've always dreamt." Batiatus took his own garment off. "That crowd, Lucretia, was the voice of our victory over Solonius today."

Solonius. Once dear friend, now ruthless rival igniting her husband's rage beyond measure. Tired, she commanded the slaves to leave and waited for her naked husband to join her in bed. "Lay with me, Quintus. And let us stop speaking about the sand for today."

Smiling, Batiatus obliged.

There were not many things he could deny his wife.

The sight of that very same woman so many years later still made his cock throb, and so his hand went to it as he laid on top of her, kneeling to gain position and enter the woman who was willingly turning and opening her legs, inviting her aroused husband inside.

"No words of blood and sand, then," he spoke. Batiatus guided his cock inside, not moving the hand that commanded it so the touch of his fingers accompanying his organ increased the intensity of the contact, gaining an instant response from his wife, never discreet within the intimacy of their bed. Batiatus chuckled. The slaves had always tried to hide the sudden and unexpected pleasure brought by such touch, either embarrassed or scared of showing those emotions in front of their dominus. Or maybe both. Lucretia was the most fortunate event in his life. An equal who deserved nothing beneath her status. Thus, Batiatus only desire was to please his demanding wife. Not to try, but to deliver confidently. Her cries of pleasure, her laugh, the increased intensity of her response...Once he had known that, he would not settle for less. So the slaves had been his training area. And then, as the years had passed and his experience made those encounters unnecessary, he kept them. He was used to the girls. And Lucretia seemed to approve. Even enjoy the sight. But no slave matched her in bed, nor would they dare.

Today, her body and his mind demanded a gentle touch, and so he delivered, and that feeling made him realize what other thoughts had most probably disrupted Lucretia's otherwise clear mind. Concerns beyond the sands, settled in an area he was unwilling to confront but that he was to face if he wanted to keep her by his side.

"I am such a brute," he suddenly said.

Lucretia, amid welcoming the pleasure her husband was giving him, opened her eyes in a questioning expression.

"Juno's priestess."

Her face changed. "What of her?" Lucretia acted as if the question had not bothered her mind, when it brought the memories of the man she was trying to avoid inside her head as she welcomed her husband's cock.

Batiatus pondered how to approach the matter. He had not been there that night, and once returned from Ovidius' house, he had found Lucretia's face stained with traces of tears, but daring not to wake her, unsure how long had taken her to finally gain sleep, he had just remained silent by her side, thoughts of the night's events preventing him to sleep.

He should have at least asked his wife, if only to erase any suspicion. Fuck him and his blinding fears of secrets unveiled.

"Was the visit...did it…was it not…?" He failed at finding words.

Lucretia softened her face as her hand on his ass invited him to enter her once more. "Not to trouble your mind," she easily spoke concealing the fact that the priestess had confirmed her fear: that the cause of them having no child after years of trying was Lucretia herself. "The priestess performed a rite," she continued, looking at her attentive husband with a sympathetic smile. "One I could not complete."

Batiatus froze, and slowly, pulled himself out of her insides.

"Quintus?"

He knew of Juno's rites of fertility, and how they worked. And that they _did_ work. He remembered seeing the remains of an extinguished candle on the floor, next to Lucretia's side of their bed. His own sudden relief knowing he had been absent ashamed him, the weigh of his constant lie to the woman he loved heavy, yet a lie essential to keep her by his side. "Apologies," he said as disengaging from her thighs not quite meeting her eyes. "The thought of failing you..." _The thought of unveiling the truth._

Lucretia promptly cupped his face with her hands, kissing him repeatedly and speaking with her loving soft tone. "Quintus, no...You had impending matters to attend, we—"

He silenced her with a soft kiss, and laid back on his side, looking at her.

"There will be other times, Quintus," she assured. I will bring Ilithyia close to this family, and her friendship will bring us more than her husband's patronage."

Battiatus managed a smile and hugged his wife, hoping for her to find rest for the night. "Sleep now, Lucretia, don't cloud your mind with my obtuseness." He breathed as she shifted her body to rest against his, and moved his arms to embrace her, as thoughts ran through his mind. He would not sleep tonight.

Ilithyia. Her intrusion in their intimate life had not been welcomed by Batiatus. What desires the wife of Glaber had inside a ludus he could easily imagine. But the bold and disrespectful conduct, brought no doubt by her higher station and youth, both things constantly reminded to Lucretia, causing his wife grief, would have to be closely watched. He sensed the danger of playing with fire, and hoping his wife could control the flame, as she was confident to be able to do, he let his thoughts indulge in the glory gained in the arena. His fortune would rise once he had moulded Spartacus. And he knew what needed to be done.

Batiatus knew.

He had made a promise: he would find his wife. And he would see that she was brought to Capua. That promise he would keep, Batiatus was a man of his word.

Spartacus and Sura would be reunited.

And then, soulless and with his beating heart ripped from his chest, the Thracian would be his.

_**OOO**_

"_Has the fertility rite borne any seed?" _

_"I was unable to conclude the rite at the allotted time"_

_"No!" _

_"My husband was sadly absent." _

_"And what of the other man?" You still have not told me anything about him."_

_(Great and Unfortunate Things)_

_**OO**_

Ilithyia was soon to depart from the lanista's villa. The hatred, fascination and betrayal that the place bore in her was a delicious poison. One soon to be given up and safely buried under the Capuan soil.

The Syrian slave had proven himself useful to an unexpected extent since their first encounter. Not only had she found a way through the ludus' beating heart, but also the path to which her perilous forced ties with Solonius would be severed. And it would not be her hands those stained with blood this time. She merely had to let the course of events run.

As for the other half of Batiatus, she just had to set a simple plan in motion, one that consisted on pointing the pieces in the right direction and giving just a slight push.

As she walked through the atrium towards the cubiculum, she hid her thirst for revenge under a friendlier façade.

Her prey was awaiting, unaware. Reaching the entrance to the small bedchamber, knowing her presence in such a private space would not be welcomed, despite discomfort would skilfully be concealed, she stopped and analyzed the scene before her in silence, unseen from the woman lighting a candle and whispering words of plea and hope.

Ilithyia had been drawn to this woman, fascinated by a new world she had always envisioned as a male territory, never imagining the pleasures inside those spartan walls, a world in which Lucretia moved with grace and prowess, her imposing frame enough to let anyone know that she was the Domina inside the ludus, and no other woman would stand above her there. She was unique. And Ilithyia hated that. She hated the fact that she did not own that power, neither could she attain it, for ironically, she was above it.

Erasing shame from mind, she entered the room, fully aware of which strings to pull, knowing of Lucretia's weakness. Beyond the obvious desire of social advancement Lucretia and her husband bore, vulnerability made its way to the lanista's wife face whenever children were mentioned. Lucretia craved for an heir, and Ilithyia intended to do everything in her hands to grant the older woman her desire. "May Juno hear your prayers." Ilithyia hid the smile before the startled woman.

"Prayers that seem to fall into deaf ears," Lucretia replied softly.

Ilithyia approached her, and taking Lucretia's hands in hers, she guided the older woman outside the bedroom and walked through the atrium. As they moved, she saw the slave coming out from the shadows, keeping the prudent distance from her Domina.

Good. She wanted the slave to listen.

"Prayers don't fall, Lucretia, they are just not desired to be heard."

Lucretia struggled to keep her voice neutral. "The meaning of your words?" She almost succeeded.

"You are given the miracle you seek and yet you dismiss it with insolence."

"I told you, Ilithyia," she replied, "my husband was absent."

"Yet Crixus was not."

Lucretia stopped abruptly, and Ilithyia merely looked at her, making sure her face reflected nothing but honest care as she softened her voice to speak. "I have not yet apologized properly for wanting what was not mine to have," she said. With a gentle push, Ilithyia made the woman start walking again as she led them both towards the balcony. "I believe words are no longer a guarantee of trust between us," she added, "so I intend to prove my gratitude for your care these past times with acts." Ilithyia made a studied pause in order to have Lucretia's complete attention and talked again, adding a hint of excitement to her voice. "I have arranged a new visit of the priestess later today." Another pause. "So this time you can complete the rite."

Lucretia's sudden discomfort was well noted and welcomed, as Ilithyia saw her battling to find an explanation to what she knew there was none: Quintus' absence later in the night.

"I'm afraid my husband must attend impending matters this evening, Ilithyia." She sighed heavily. "My gratitude for your kindness, but—"

They reached the balcony at the perfect moment. Gladiators were training outside, and Ilithyia had guided their conversation step by step with flawless pace. Now her eyes sought the Gaul.

"If your husband is absent tonight, use your champion."

Lucretia tried not to look, not to move, not to say a thing.

Ilithyia did not mind the silence, she knew what was raging inside. "Speak not to your husband about the priestess, and let it be Crixus the one to thrust the seed inside you. What marvel could be born out of such magnificent creature," she remarked aiming to feed Lucretia's ego to the point of no return. "The heir of Batiatus, destined for greatness, like his father. Your husband's pride." She observed the man, training relentlessly, craving for the glory in the sand. Much to her disgust, the corner of her eye caught sight of Spartacus, moving less gracefully than the rest. Probably beaten by his friend's death. Quickly, she turned back to her present matters. Besides, the Thracian would be dealt with soon enough. By her husband. "Crixus will rise again," she added, this time gaining reply.

"He has been long gone from the arena."

"Crixus is the rightful champion of Capua, and without his help, Spartacus would have perished under Theokoles' swords."

Her words reached their target clean and sharp.

"The crowd quickly forgets," Lucretia lamented, "and only sees the glory in the hand that strikes the final blow."

"The Thracian will die soon enough," came the determined reply.

Lucretia looked at the younger woman. As to the purpose of such sudden kindness, gratitude was surely not behind it. Ilithyia was in her grasp due to Licinia's murder, but she knew that tightening the rope too soon would be but a mistake.

Sometimes you had to loosen the leash to let the animal trust its owner.

"Your friendship warms my heart," she said squeezing the hand around her own wrist, "and aches in regret for the pain it caused on you. Pairing you with Sp—"

Her words were cut by a firm hold and a pair of eyes looking directly into hers. "No. It was my mistake to try and take what was not mine to have." Ilithyia saw the older woman's smile and looked back into the training sands, internally indulging herself in Lucretia's reaction once she spoke her next words. "I understand now," she said feeling the excitement grow inside. "The threat of younger flesh under his strong hands..."

Words may not mean anything between them when it came to trust, yet as daggers they could inflict so much pain that Ilithyia still relished the use of them. Even more when they were meant to be dormant poisoned seeds to be harvested when the willed time came.

Smiling kindly, Ilithyia turned and kissed the tense, unreadable face, tasting her lips with a lick of her tongue, daring the rage surely boiling inside Lucretia to bite her, knowing she would not. "I will not disturb the priestess' visit with my company again. May Juno hear your pray and fulfil your desires tonight."

Before leaving, Ilithya cast a glance towards the slave, then returned them to Lucretia, absent loving blue eyes set upon the former champion of Capua.

Right as the Syrian had assured her.

_**OOOOO**_


	3. Part III: A first time for everything

**Spoilers**: SEASON 1. In this chapter, mentions of events from episode 5 (_Shadow Games_). And direct quote from _Whore_ (episode 9).

**Disclaimer**: not mine. (neither are the quotes taken from episodes for use on this fic: because the writers are made of awesomesauce, as everything in this show)

**Author's notes**: plotted before watching "_Old Wounds_" (episode 11) thus using the first ten episodes as canon. The story jumps a little back and forth in time. If you don't like Ilithyia/Lucretia slash...you probably don't watch the show (kidding). There's some. Sort of.

**Edit**** notes: **

Batiatus' father, Crixus: A distant memory imagined the background for Lucretia before there was a prequel. As this part of the plot is essential in the fic, no adjustments have been made. Do not imagine Titus Batiatus while reading this fic. Background for some characters is different too, as you will read.

Oenomaus: As it would not be revealed until 'Kill them all' and the fic was written before it aired, I had named Doctore 'Draba'. As there is a sequel to this story (Eagles and worms), I changed the name and in this case did make adjustments on Theokoles to make this part of the story fit with the prequel "Gods of the arena".

_**OOOOO**_

_**Part III. A first time for everything**_

_**OOOOO**_

_**85 BC**_

_It had not been raining in Capua for several days now. It was not the high temperature of the summer what bothered her, although with the passing of years and the habituation to new comforts, her endurance of inordinate heat had decreased significantly. _

_No; Lucretia knew what the absence of rain meant for the fields. Fortunately, spelt didn't need much water to grow, so the harvest was still not in peril. However, she had sent her prayers to Jupiter and Ceres for rain. _

_One other thing Lucretia disliked about the lack of rain was the smell. Water cleaned the soil, the dirt and, most importantly, in a house surrounded by fields, many from latifundia and other smaller farming propierties, the livestock's excrements._

_And these days, in the very unique and grim circumstances in which they lived, the lack of water meant they could not have a proper bath. And the few they had, needed to be saved for Quintus' father. _

_A whispered soft plea to the Heavens escaping her lips, she looked down and, sighing heavily, Lucretia kept walking, leaving the empty impluvium behind her as she directed herself towards Batiatus' room. The same richness brought by Ceres to Capua, seemed to be the curse in Titus' life. It appeared that the spelt Capua flourished under, was the cause behind the severe stomach pains he was suffering now. At least it was the only explainable reason the medicus had been able to provide for the acute ache in his lower belly and the constant incapacity of maintaining any aliment inside, either escaping through his mouth or below. Most of the water in the house was being used both to give him some nourishment he could keep inside and to clean him._

_The stench coming from the room unsettled her stomach. _

_Quintus' father had finally given up, wanting to escape the decadent and humiliating state his body was imprisoned in, and had called for her early in the morning, knowing his time was fleeing, with the desire of sharing some moments with his beloved daughter in law. _

_Lucretia was very religious. The faith in the Gods providing for them was reprieving, but also a curse when they did not favor them. When fatalities happened, she could not but think they had offended them somehow. And, as much as she loved Quintus, her husband seemed to have a mind set on walking an obscure line between piety and sinfulness, making her fear for his life when Quintus was meant for greatness. How was he to acquire it if he constantly defied the Gods with his sometimes ruthless acts?_

_Was no__t the painful and disgusting process of his father's death enough sign for him? The man was suffering beyond what any decent man should, and still the Gods would refuse to let him go._

_Sometimes, Lucretia failed to comprehend the Gods. Their ruthlessness. Their randomness. But it was the only thing helping her understand the passing of her mother. And many other unexplained events shaping her life._

_Slowly, she entered the dimly lit room where the silently suffering man laid._

_He spoke, his voice a thread. "Come, daughter, sit by my side."_

_Lucretia smiled at him and did as commanded, giving her hand in comfort as soon as she saw his opened to welcome the touch._

_Her eyes caught sight of other hand clenched in a fist._

_"Your presence in this house soothes my aching mind."_

_"You should not speak, father, you-"_

_"I am fading, Lucretia."_

_She fell silent, no soothing words needed for a man who understood his fate and embraced it. Lucretia looked at him in sympathy, realizing she would be sad when the man was no longer among them. A tear threatened to show vulnerability, a trait she knew Quintus' father did not approve, yet she managed to contain it by squeezing his hand harder._

_"Do not be disturbed, for I leave this world in peace. I have a son who will run this house with honor."_

_If there was one thing Lucretia and her husband's father agreed upon, it was their unconditional love for Quintus._

_"Quintus will make his father proud when he looks at him from the heavens," she spoke with conviction._

_"If I had not known this was an honest life, I would have never run this ludus. For I would be condemning my son to the Underworld." He paused, and struggled to say something. Lucretia waited in silence. "Or my son's son." Tired eyes looked at hers, and she sensed the remaining strength grasping her hand. All his force seemed to be focused on the other, the closed fist. "I secured my legacy, Lucretia. Do the same for him."_

_She tried to smile. But it was hard. She had not been able to bear a child, and she feared she was the cause for such disgrace. Quintus could divorce her for that. The reason he had not yet, a mystery._

_She loved Quintus. She loved her husband._

_"Bear seed, Lucretia. Give him a son."_

_What do you tell a man who knows he is dying when he asks of you something you are not sure you can give him?_

_Lucretia remained silent. Pondering._

_"For the years to come. To keep this ludus and our lineage alive."_

_Lucretia believed in the Gods. She had been praying to Juno for moons. And no child had come. She could not explain it, and her husband was an honest man, not deserving this unfortunate circumstance. _

_"Promise me, Lucretia."_

_Lucretia loved her husband._

_And she did not want to lose him._

_What t__o tell a man who knows he is dying when he asks of you something you are not sure you can give him, knowing that if that truth is revealed you will lose everything you have? "I promise." You lie. Then you repent. So you speak the truth. "I promise. This ludus will have an heir, Batiatus." You make it the truth. Any means necessary._

_"You are a good woman, Lucretia."_

_Those were Titus Batiatus' last words. Lucretia saw his eyes close, and a smile remained on his face. His hand squeezed no more, and her eyes went once more towards the fist. The gold coin for Charon slipped the innert hand and fell on the floor._

_'You are a good woman, Lucretia'. _

_His last words were comforting. _

_'I promise. This ludus will have an heir'. _

_Hers were haunting._

_**OO**_

_Quintus had made all the preparations for the funeral. It would be at night, as it was custom, and after the gladiator's test. She had said it would be inapropriate given the circumstances, but Quintus had disagreed._

_"In honor of my father," he had said, proud. "The gladiators will say the oath in his name, and good fortune will rise upon us." She observed the fighting slaves from the balcony. Quintus had spoken well of the Gaul. What was his name? Oh, yes._

_Crixus._

_"Bring some water," she said to the small silent presence behind her._

_"Yes, Domina."_

_The girl promptly did as ordered, skillfully pouring the liquid on the cup. Her mother had tought her well._

_Naevia would make a good slave one day._

_**OOO**_

Quintus walked to their cubiculum. The sun was high up, and Lucretia had given no signs of presence yet. Lucretia, who always rose before him, sometimes with the sun. She had been feeling unwell for days now, at times not being able to keep her food, but had insisted on not seeing a medicus, merely blaming it on the heat of the last days. Naevia was silently standing on the entrance, waiting for her Domina to rise.

"Is she not awaken?"

"No, Dominus."

Batiatus approached the bed and sat by her side. There were black circles around her eyes. He studied her face, caressing the pale –paler than usual– skin of her cheeks. He wished he had no need of waking her up. But imminent matters awaited for no one. And these were of the utmost importance. He softly moved a strand of red hair behind her ear. Lucretia did not even stir.

"Lucretia," he whispered.

Nothing.

"Lucretia." Louder this time.

At last, two blue eyes half opened. Looking tired and bringing an involuntary worried wince on his face. "Ilithyia is coming soon. Bearing news of her husband." She regarded at him as if she were not quite awake. "You are not feeling well." It was not a question.

And, rare on his otherwise stoic wife, her answer was devoid of her usual calm and comforting tone. "I am not."

Batiatus breathed inwardly. "You need to rise and freshen yourself. Can you do that?"

Silence.

"Lucretia." Not a plea. Her blue eyes opened finally, softening his stance. He cupped her face before resuming his caring voice. "Once we are granted with Glaber's patronage you will have all the time in the world to rest. But you must tend to Ilithyia today."

That got an ashamed look on Lucretia that he wished he had not caused.

"You are right. I am—"

"You are what I never deserved and yet I still have." He caressed her face and softened his tone. "Just a few hours. Then I will bring the medicus."

Lucretia reacted, not wanting to worry her husband further, and quickly sat up. "Don't Quintus, just—" It all happened too quickly. The bile of her already empty stomach rose, leaving the sudden nausea behind, or rather, on the ground and his sandals. "Quintus, your feet, I-"

"Worry not," he said, searching for the slaves with his eyes. Naevia was already helping her clean, offering a linen cloth, and another slave bringing a basin with water, items Lucretia quickly used to freshen herself, sighing deeply to fight the dizziness.

"Naevia, prepare Domina a bath." Batiatus rarely spoke to the slave girls using their names, so when he did, diligence exceled proficiency. "You are seeing a medicus as soon as this is over."

"Quintus, it is probably the heat or something I ate."

"For days straight?," came the incredulous question.

"It has been a trying time. We are all nervous. There have been many things happening." She caressed his cheekbone and the edge of his short sideburn. "Do not concern yourself with me."

"That is something I cannot promise." Batiatus placed a loving kiss on her forehead, letting his exhausted wife lean on his shoulder and filling his mind with worried thoughts about her well-being. They were so close to their dreams. Were the Gods going to fuck him taking his wife away? Dare they not.

_Dare they not._

"Domina."

Batiatus leaned back as Lucretia rose her head to look towards the mild voice coming from her personal slave.

"The bath is ready."

Batiatus helped Lucretia to stand up and before she started to walk, he held her by her arms.

"Are you sure you can do this?"

A resolved nod. "I will."

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, making Lucretia pull back with a hint of shame. "Quintus, don't, I'm...it is disgusting, let me clean first."

Batiatus kissed her again, letting his tongue explore the mouth despite the taste of vomit. "I care not. You deserve a husband who will show you his love even in the worst of occasions."

_**OOO**_

The bath was welcomed.

With nothing left on her stomach, the water and the chance to be cleaned provided her with a moment of much needed relaxation. Time to think, time to—

_The kalends. _

It had been..."Naevia."

She could barely speak.

Naevia was carefully washing her. "Domina?"

"When was the last kalend?"

The slave thought silent. "More than two market weeks, Domina," she finally said.

More than...she looked below.

"Leave."

Her voice sounded serious yet strangely soft. Naevia did as commanded, but stayed close to ear range in case her Domina changed her mind, but she didn't see her smiling in private thoughts. She didn't see the hopeful look, or the furtive, hesitant hand on the belly.

_**OOO**_

_**84 BC**_

_His furious voice echoed through the atrium, loud enough to make Lucretia approach her husband in a hurried pace._

_"Bring me that fucking slave!"_

_The command was given and Lucretia crossed her way with two rushing, livid slaves. They knew what that tone in their Dominus meant. She did too._

_"Quintus, what happened?"_

_He suddenly threw several silver coins at Lucretia, almost hitting her, as if she were a mark to be harmed. She looked at him startled, even more when he did not seem to notice he had almost hurt her. "Fucking socii denarii, Lucretia," he said agravated. "I send Nicia to bring the linen for your slaves' tunics and he brings me the spare money. Coinage from the traitors to Rome!"_

_"He is a slave, Quintus," she said in a calming voice. "He does not know better."_

_It was not care for the slave. Lucretia worried for her husband's temper. Once it was unleashed, he could not control it. And it was a blind creature. It bore no regards for that whom he harmed._

_Too late. Quintus__ turned brusquely towards her, approaching his wife in a way that made her, instinctively, step backwards._

_"I do no__t want to calm down Lucretia, I am the owner of this ludus now, and this," he said turning his head towards the entrance from where he expected to see the slave coming, "is an honorable house, loyal to Rome!"_

_"Quintus, " she said in a softer tone, "it is just a couple of coins."_

_Lucretia soon regreted her words. Dragged towards the wall with a swift violent move, the coldness felt by the contact her back made with the stone was a relieve compared to the force of Batiatus' grasp on her shoulders._

_"Do you have any fucking idea of who is passing through Capua in a few days?," he asked._

_At that moment, she did not care. "Quintus, you're hurting me."_

_Yet__ the creature is not only blind, but deaf too._

_"Sulla, the fucking former consul, the hero of the war against the socii!"_

_He spoke through gritted teeth, but the salliva expelled reached her face anyway._

_"The magistrate will surely want to prepare games to honor his presence, Lucretia. How many ludi are there in Capua? " He strenghtened the hold. "Huh? Just one?," he asked as if he were talking to a clod. "Is the house of Batiatus the only ludus to offer gladiators for the primus in Capua?"_

_"No." Her initial fear led way to her own anger._

_"Do you know what having a primus on those games would mean for us?"_

_Control regained, as it usually happened when this outburst altered their life, Lucretia looked at him serious, and took a firm yet soft hold on his hands, never missing his eyes. She knew she had no need of words to make herlself heard, and Batiatus caught her expression thanks to years of convivence._

_Did she know what that meant? Of course she did. And apparently, she knew it better than him. "It will mean that Solonius will promptly offer his titan, one we have no rival against." His hands opened as the words hit him. "Are you willing to take the offered bait so blindly?" Lucretia saw his eyes leaving her face, deep in though, contemplating the truth suddenly unveiled before his blind impulse to gain favour of the great Lucius Cornelius Sulla, if only by reputation. "It will be your defeat, Quintus, not your triumph, what Sulla shall witness if you offer a gladiator for the primus. None can defeat Theokoles." He remained silent, deep in thought. Lucretia studied his face, not sure if she was being listened at. Still, she had to try. To no avail._

_"Fuck."_

_Lucretia sighed._

_"Fuck the Gods and our bad fortune, Lucretia." Batiatus paced back and forth along the side of the impluvium, still casting glances towards the entrance, no doubt waiting for the slave, to have a body on which releasing the increasing rage. "This ludus is fucking second best because Solonius had the money we lacked and got his unworthy hands on the Greek."_

_"Sometimes you lose, sometimes you win, Quintus." More calmed, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "You bought Crixus before his eyes, and you told me they seethed, for he had wanted the Gaul for himself."_

_Indeed, the young Gaul slave was proving himself worthy of the high sum Batiatus had paid for him. It had also meant that before the slave could prove his worth, Batiatus would have to wait until his purse was filled again, and that had led him to have not enough denarii to buy Theokoles a few months later. His only worthy gladiator was—_

_"Oenomaus."_

_Lucretia turned to him, questioning look. "What of him?"_

_"He can defeat Theokoles."_

_Oenomaus, a unique case. Descendant of Nubians, a nomad lineage that running from the Romans, had ended days in Gaul, where the boy had turned into a man. Yet traveller at heart, he had moved south, to Hispania, and lived among the Celts, forging friendship, and love. He spoke little of his time as a free man when he arrived in the house of Batiatus to be trained, one of his father's best aqcuisitions in his last years, proudly standing as one of__ the most magnificent gladiator the house of Batiatus had ever known. A formidable opponent who quickly gained reputation in the arena. His name was well known in Capua. Batiatus respected him, and saw his value beyond the arena. He had talked several times with Lucretia about him: were he to live long, he would retire when the time came. As the Doctore of the ludus._

_"He will die under his swords, Quintus, Theokoles is not known as the Shadow of Death for nothing. And you will lose an asset to this house," she insisted._

_"Oenomaus is a gladiator, Lucretia, do not forget that. His fate is to die in the arena, and only survive if the Gods decide it must be so. It is not I the one to decide his fate, but neither will I be the one to deny him the glory, were it to be placed before his eyes."_

_"I do not care about his fucking glory, Quintus, and neither do you. Can't you see your thirst for power is blinding you?"_

_"Thirst? We are speaking about our dream, Lucretia. Ours!"_

_"A dream we are yet to conquer, Quintus. But not stumbling upon the steps we have already taken."_

_He studied her. Determined, as ever. Yet pleading at the same time. Lucretia had a rare mixture of strength and vulnerability inside, that Batitaus was far from understanding. She acted with fierce determination yet sometimes moved by some inner conflict that her eyes fought not to reveal._

_"Your words are those of a wise person," he conceded, "and I could not ask for a better conscience than that which my wife offers." He placed his forehead on hers, closing his eyes._

_But the creature is blind._

_"I will send my offer to the magistrate for the primus. Were Solonius to present Theokoles, Oenomaus will fight him." Lucretia simply looked at him, in silence. Not approving, but never acting against him. He then saw the red marks on her shoulders and winced. He caressed the areas. "I hurt you."_

_She took the aggravating hand on hers and kissed it. "You were worried about the games. I understand now."_

_"My temper took the best of me. It will not happen again."_

_Batiatus had never laid a hand on Lucretia. Ever. But he had been close too many times. Lucretia knew, that despite his comfort and words of regret, honest as he was, this would happen again. Sometimes she thought it was encased rage and frustration, for the years passed and he had not secured his lineage. Losing the gens would be a shame and a bad augury for the afterlife. All the fears of disavowel rushed on her insides like fire._

_Why had Quintus kept her as wife, was sometimes something incomprehensible. But she prayed for her good fortune. And she remembered she had a promise to keep._

_**OOO**_

_"You said I was to lie with Crixus. Why would you give me Spartacus? Why would you do such a thing?" _

_"You ask what you already know the answer to."_

_(Whore)_

_**OO**_

Ilithyia never arrived early or late by accident, but by convenience. Her first visits to the ludus, seeing the eager desire to please from the owners of the gladiatorial school had been premeditated late arrivals. Then...then things had changed, and Ilithyia had found herself shamefully eager to enter that world. The walk towards the balcony, the pleasures Lucretia had studiedly placed on her insides.

It had taken the death of Licinia to pull the veil away and realize how dangerously toxic that place was.

More than once, since then, Ilithyia had wished she had never placed her foot there. Had never opened her ears to Lucretia's serpent tongue. Had not felt that instant attraction towards her, an allure skilfully driven by the seductive woman, placing her on a perilious situation, out of which she would fiercely fight her way with claws.

It all had started with that kiss as a simple game to see the reaction in the startled woman. But Lucretia, save the initial surprise, had not once rejected the touch. Even more, had granted her with smiles, she knew, mastered at will for her own purposes, yet unavoidably alluring.

That kiss had been a mistake. It had been the start. Ilithyia's blunder, Lucretia's chance. Their last kiss had been so different. It had been Lucretia, holding her in a comforting embrace after she had taken a life, whispering soothing words behind the selfish interest that moved them to her lips. And still, it had been a kiss Ilithyia had wanted to last.

Lucretia always let her kiss her, but never opened her mouth, never letting her explore the insides, taste the exquisiteness she reserved with zeal to an unworthy man and a slave. But not to her.

She may have dreamt of brutish hands on her body, of a gladiator's cock thrusting inside her. But Ilithyia's lips, always devoted to her husband, dreamed now of those of another woman. The one she was ashamed to desperately want to meet now.

She caught sight of Lucretia before the older woman saw her. Rare, Ilithyia mused, being Lucretia one to never miss a thing. One of the only times been caught unaware, those weeks ago, when she had seen her praying to...Juno.

A smile curled Ilithyia's lips, her eyes becoming attentive as those of a predator waiting to catch the game unaware.

And it seemed Lucretia's mind did not meet her eyes when she took notice of Ilithyia standing in the atrium.

"Ilithyia," she said welcoming her. "Your presence is always a celebration in this house."

"All the more under the present circumstances bringing me here, I am sure."

Lucretia managed to keep her smile.

Ilithyia's eyes studied her closely. If there was life within, her condition had not yet blossomed. Parting her eyes from her belly, she returned the smile and accepted the open arms and the false words.

"Gratitude among friends," said Lucretia. "Can I offer you anything?"

Ilithyia smiled at the chance so innocently given to her.

"A cup of wine." She paused and let Lucretia turn to order her slave, waiting until the last moment to grab her hand and letting Lucretia turn her head towards her. So she could see the change over that dangerously beautiful façade. "But only if you share with me."

Lucretia delayed her answer, clearing any doubt from Ilithyia's mind. Now she knew.

Lucretia was with child. Crixus'.

"I would hate to drink alone, my dear friend," she finished, smiling and proud of the childish voice employed. Like the spoiled child they thought she was.

Lucretia merely looked at her, tension well hidden, and turned back to the slave. "Bring wine. And water for me."

"Yes, Domina," said Naevia.

"Wait!"

Naevia stopped, startled. The command had not come from her Domina. Ilithyia noticed the surprise in both women, but decided to leave that for a few seconds. "Water?," she asked with a mixture of interest and amused bewilderment. "You never drink water in company!," she exclaimed remebering all those times when all she'd been offered was wine.

"I am suffering from a weak stomach, I am afraid wine is not the best-suited drink for it right now," she said placing a hand on her stomach. And leaving it there for a second longer than it should have. "Maybe another time."

And the game of smiles and nods repeated itself once more.

Then, before Lucretia commanded, Ilithyia finished the plan she had started a few seconds before. "Water for both, then, slave."

Naevia doubted again, but ultimately, bowing her head in acceptance, left to obey. Yes, she was a slave, but she was the slave of Domina; not even Dominus, known to take service of the rest, laid a hand on her.

Ilithyia was not blind to the reaction within Lucretia. She knew better than anyone that _Domina_ did not like to share her slaves. She had learnt the lesson regretfully. But Ilithyia never committed the same mistake twice. Now her move had been calculated and measured to the slightest detail.

Too focused on her own plans, Ilithyia did not catch Lucretia's sudden wince. Nor was she fast enough to offer support for her as she suddenly doubled over in pain.

"Quintus!" It wasn't a scream, but an agonizing desperate whisper, not having the strength for more, the pain and the fear that came with it too strong to have control of her body.

Ilithyia, however, knew exactly what to do, so she did cry loud enough to be heard by the slave, surely not far. "Lucretia!," she shouted as she kneeled, offering the aching woman some support. She seemed far away, her hands desperately clutching her belly, surely praying for protection.

Naevia was soon rushing to their side with a worried and scared face.  
"Domina!"

"Quintus...call...," she could not speak through the pain, blinding all her senses. Ilithyia, once more, took command.

"Bring her husband, slave, quick!"

Naevia ran leaving both women alone on the floor of a suddenly deafening silence only broken by Lucretia's ragged breathing and Ilithyia's assertion.

"You are with child."

No denial came from the woman leaning on Ilithyia's embrace, giving her support and warmth until, soon later, she lost consciousness. Ilithyia sensed the rythm change, Lucretia suddenly falling silent, making the younger woman react on pure instinct, making sure she was alive, placing her hand over her half open mouth.

So inviting.

Inevitably drawn to it, she let her lips approach, relishing the fact that she was not going to be rejected, brushing them against an unaware Lucretia. Ilithyia's tonge, wet with the salliva her mouth produced, as if faced with the finest delicacies, escaped her mouth to touch, then taste, those lips. First, tentatively. Then, staying longer. Deeper.

Not leaving the newly conquered territory, she let one hand search for a heartbeat finding the breast, hesitant. The surface was...she had never touched a woman's breast before, and Lucretia's were...she smiled. Yes, they were already swollen, preparing themselves for nurture.

The intrussion gave the act an added pleasure, and she ventured a hand on her belly, and imagined it exposed under the garments. Then, she began to explore lower, her own body reacting to pleasure, until her stolen time became cut short as she heard the steps and worried voice of Batiatus approaching.

"Lucretia!"

Soon he was by his wife, instinctively touching her as if his caresses would calm him, or would bring her awake again. Naevia followed diligently behind him, ready to take any order her Dominus were to command her.

Ilithyia parted her mind from Lucretia for a few seconds, and wondered what would be inside the slave's mind knowing that she was betraying the very woman who owned her life.

"What happened?," asked a frantic Batiatus.

"She suddenly felt pain and fell unconscious," spoke Ilithyia on a matching worried tone.

Batiatus looked regretful. "I should have called for the medicus earlier," he spoke, probably to himself. "She told me not to, but I—"

Ilithyia cut his grievous speech as she gently stroke Lucretia's face. "You know expectant women," she said, already feeling the excitement of the outcome of her words. "They seem to know what—"

His voice suddenly turned cold and low. "What did you just say?"

She looked at him innocently. Her insides already celebrating the triumph.

"The baby, of course."

On all the time she had had to get to know them, Ilithyia had learnt one thing about Batiatus and Lucretia. They seldom needed words to communicate between themselves. Their eyes and their hands most of the times spoke for them. That silent language had become a part of them, and Ilithyia had spent time studying that. She didn't need to see inside Batiatus' face. She merely needed to see how his caressing hand had stopped frozen and was fighting against being clenched into a fist to know her words had cut deep inside.

"It fills my heart with joy that she she decided to call the priestess again." Then she looked back at the unconscious woman, placing an intended hand on the belly. "She desperately wanted a child, she was willing to do anything." She looked at him. Concern had abandoned his face.

The pieces were placing themselves on their right places. It was just a matter of pushing them into the right direction.

"_Anything_."

With only a slight push.

_**OOO**_

Ilithyia's words had not left Batiatus' mind for the last hour.

Lucretia had been taken to her room, and had not awakened even when the medicus arrived.

Batiatus waited from the entrance for the physician to finish his work, leaning on the wall with an unreadable face, only standing straight when the medicine practitioner finished and approached him.

"She is to rest," he said. "It is rare for a woman of her age to be with child. May the godess Fortuna be with you on these next months."

Batiatus listened to the man, the word 'child' furiously echoing inside, but not parting his eyes from his sleeping wife. "See my slaves for your fee. My gratitude for your service."

The physician nodded and left, not listening to Batiatus' anger filled words. "Yes. Fortuna has granted us a fucking miracle."

Batiatus entered the room, observing Lucretia. His wife. She had never told him. She was sharing her body with someone else, she—

Lucretia stirred and soon opened her eyes and winced in pain as her senses awoke with her, immediately taking an unconsciously protective hand on her stomach.

"Worry not," came a voice from somewhere. "Your spawn yet lives."

Lucretia followed the voice, one she did not recognize, being the more confused when her eyes showed her that the low and cold voice came from her husband.

"Quintus," she whispered on a weak voice. "What happened?"

"What happend?," he asked for a first time.

Then he approached while Lucretia tried, with effort, to sit up on her bed.

"What happened?," he asked a second time. Now he was closer, and Lucretia could see him.

And froze. She knew that look. She had seen it before. Like the time he had decided to send Oeanomaus against Theokoles.

The blind and deaf creature.

"What happened?" A third time. Lower and through gritted teeth.

Batiatus had never risen his hand against his wife.

Ever.

There is a first time for everything.

_**OOOOO**_

**Author's notes: **

If you got curious about Batiatus' father's death, look up "coeliac disease". Otherwise, I didn't go for further research on Medicine by Late Roman Republic, so any errors there are completely my fault, and if you happen to want to point them out, I'll be very happy to hear them.

Batiatus' outburst in relation to the coins refers to the social war 91-88 BC. After the war the coinage still circulated for some time.

_"Ilithyia's words had not left Batiatus' mind for the last hour" _Note hours in Rome are not the same as ours. It is more than 60 minutes.


	4. Part IV: Infertile

PART 4

**Spoilers**: In this chapter, mentions of events from episode 5 (_Shadow Games_) and 10 (_Party Favors_). And direct quote from _Legends_ (episode 3).

**Disclaimer**: not mine. (neither are the quotes taken from episodes for use on this fic: because the writers are made of awesomesauce, as everything in this show)

**Author's notes**: plotted before watching "_Old Wounds_" (episode 11) thus using the first ten episodes as canon. The story jumps a little back and forth in time. CHAPTER SET BETWEEN EPISODES 10 AND 11.

_**OOOOO**_

_**Part IV. Infertile**_

_**OOOOO**_

_**77 BC**_

_The house of Batiatus had never sheltered a wider variety of medicine herbs as when Quintus Lentulus' father had fallen ill. _

_After his passing, and seeing the pain watching those herbs inflicted on her husband's memory, Lucretia had asked him to dispose of the remaining medical plants, unwanted tokens of painful illness._

_Batiatus had considered it and had seen it done. Except for one herb; the one they had used to calm his father's bowel pains, with very specific instructions to Lucretia's slave girl attached to its use. _

_Lucretia was a remarkable woman before and behind her husband's eyes. A palimpsest of layers continuously uncovering new qualities to love about her. She was also a woman that, despite the rareness of her upbringings, far from a city, unattached to certain ambitions, pined for the same social aims he yearned for, but never losing her place as a woman. Always respectfully behind her husband; always knowing when to talk and when to remain silent, and never speaking out of place or using an inappropriate tone. _

_She was a woman, and as such, she excelled. Had she been a man, the ranks of social station would have been not enough for such being._

_Lucretia, his wife. In many aspects, to his private shame, so beyond him, nevertheless, and to his public pride, never willing to show it. That sometimes pained Batiatus, although he would never allow it to show past the surface. He buried the ache by defying Roman tradicions where Lucretia would not dare. It also brought the benefit on his side, of making Lucetia increase her esteem for her husband._

_Whenever she was cursed with her menses, Lucretia silently retired from his side, secluding herself in the private chambers used for such grim days. There, she waited until the matter inside her stopped flowing. _

_On one occasion, Quintus, having heard several times a distant yet familiar sobbing, had inquired her personal slave about his wife's grief, hoping to have an ashamed reply from the girl, stating that she ignored the cause for Lucretia's discomfort, due to it being thoughts of sadness for the blood to be a sign of no seed planted within, for slaves could not read her mind as he did. He had not expected the slave to tell him his wife cries found source in physical pain._

_The medicines reminded Batiatus of his father's death, but Lucretia's suffering was something he found hard to bear. _

_He had needed no second thought on which herbs to keep._

_**OO**_

_Lucretia had never wanted to admit it, but together with her cycles came an ache bellow, forcing her to lie down, on her side, trying to ease the pain holding her folded legs against the aching belly. That also increased her guilt, the physical ache a reminder of her inability to bear seed, despite her prayers and efforts, having secretly started to lay with the only gladiator__ oeanomaus excepted, worthy to share her flesh without rising suspicion, unexpectedly and dangerously finding an intoxicating pleasure._

_**OO**_

_Batiatus had ordered the slave to learn how to prepare the herbs, making __certain Lucretia did not suffer. Sometimes that wasn't enough for him, and he did more than what would be expected from a husband. Their marriage was a unique one. Given the circumstances looming on them, he would have been expected to reject her and take another wife._

_He had three reasons not to._

_Solonius pretended, filled with desire, Lucretia. If Batiatus had one possesion he would gauge his eyes before having to see owned by Solonius, it was her. The thought of the pig's cock inside her, his hands on her breasts...He would kill before that happened. By keeping the marriage, he kept her safe, and there was no risk of suffering the humiliation of adultery, because Lucretia despised Solonius as much as he did._

_He loved, trully loved, Lucretia. What was not to love in her? Always a supporting hand, bearer of a tongue worthy of Minerva and Venus –the mere thought of the pleasures she gave him made his cock itch for more– and the most loyal of wives._

_Those were the first two reasons._

_Still, under Roman traditions their marriage was, indeed, a unique one, and as such, many times would Batiatus defy the mos maiorum, even despite Lucretia herself. Entering the room during one of those cycles, carrying the calming infussion Lucretia expected Naevia to bring, had been one of those times._

_"You should not be here, Quintus," she had weakly __spoken from her bed, trying to sit up._

_"I am concerned about my wife's health."_

_"Clear your mind from inferior matters, then."_

_Ignoring her plea, Quintus sat by Lucretia's side and offered her the warm liquid. "Drink. It will ease the pain."_

_"Quintus..."_

_"Drink," he firmly yet softly spoke. "If not for you, for your grieving husband, for he cannot stand the sight of his wife suffering."_

_Lucretia abided and drank. Batiatus remained by her side, whispering words of comfort, hoping to lull his wife for a much needed sleep._

_**OO**_

_There were three reasons to keep that unique marriage. Solonius wanting what he could not have. The fact that he loved his wife._

_The third one was his secret and shame. Were he to repudiate Lucretia and take another woman as wife, the result would be the same: a barren marriage._

_Batiatus had no seed to give, there existed no way in which he could produce a child._

_Only his father had known, his love for Lucretia had prevented him from telling her the truth, even when learning how much she yearned for a child, he had not found the courage inside, instead trying to lead her desires towards other aspects of their life, hoping against hope to part Lucretia's mind from motherhood._

_But even loving her as he did, the thought of sharing Lucretia with another man...the sole thought made his blood seeth._

_**OOO**_

"_Has a man ever had such a wife?" _

_"She but loves her husband, and would see him elevated"_

_(Brotherhood)_

_**OO**_

Batiatus had not raised his hand against her.

Ever.

Lucretia never expected to be a first time for that.

The force of the blow, driven by rage, the contact of his fist against her face, startled as much as hurt her, finding herself staring at the floor she almost fell to, with open, clueless eyes soon finding a drop of blood from her parted lip. With a shaking hand, she cleaned her face, tasting the metallic liquid as she swallowed.

Bewildered, she found the courage to look at her husband, standing frozen still, a painful vivid façade of chagrin and disappointment.

Lucretia didn't know the cause of her husband's distress, nor dared she ask, fearing another blow that not only would hurt her further, but that would cement a breach she willed not to have between them.

Quintus soon clarified her mental query.

"My wife," he uttered with disgust. "The virtuous Lucretia." His eyes were small, pressed by angered brows, while Lucretia's were round and framed in fear and sorrow. "Fucking on her husband's back. Shaming the name of Batiatus and of this honorable house with her lust." He did not shout. He spoke in a very low tone, almost a whisper. "Bearing a child-"

"Quintus, it's...," she paused, trying to understand. "It is your heir," she finally said.

Batiatus chuckled bitterly. "It is but a shame for me."

Lucretia did not understand, but when she saw her husband's stance change, the anger gone, she accepted the bitterness left and got hold of herself, and the moment she did that, fear of discovery faded, being replaced by a query of a different colour. One she was not sure she wanted to unveil.

"You do not long for a child."

Her tone was not questioning, nor it was an assertion. Her mind, suddenly losing control of herself, wandered through memories of warm and hopeful hands on her belly, kind smiles and soothing words to quiet her grief when no child would show his will to live within her.

Studying his face through the tears her tired eyes wished no longer to contain, she saw the struggle to speak the truth, silently revealing himself.

Until Quintus finally parted his lips and spoke the truth.

A truth she had not expected.

Far more devastating.

"I cannot have children."

Infertile.

Lucretia stared at nothing, trying hard to find sense in the madness rawly shot at her, before returning her wounded sight towards Batiatus. "You lied to me?"

She could see his jaw clenched by tension, dwelling within the anger brought by her offense and the shame of his secret revealed.

"How can it be that my husband filled my heart with hope only to have it crushed with his secrets?"

And once unleashed, the painful truths hit her inside, one by one.

"That is why we are still married," she realized in a whisper, high enough for him to hear. "You should have divorced me long ago, Quintus, I always wondered why you did not."

Batiatus struggled between the pain he had inflicted to his grieving wife, both physical and mental, and the anger risen by Lucretia's betrayal. "You could...you should have offered it, yet you never did," he finally said, daring not to look into her eyes.

The room suddenly became cold and distant.

"I loved you."

"You have been fucking another man behind my back, Lucretia, how is that love?"

Her expression changed towards one of anger, yet cautious. Even in those circumstances. Even in the privacy of their marriage, she was still a woman. "You dare—"

"You know it is not the same."

And he was right, it was not. And deep inside she was ashamed, because Quintus did not love the women he penetrated, often before her eyes, as it amused her. But her...she longed for Crixus beyond the initial desire to use the slave in order to acquire their dreams, fulfil her desire of becoming a mother and keep her promise to his father.

Still. There were many questions lingering now to conceed victory.

"What were you planning to do, Quintus? I cannot inherit your possesions without an heir to pass them to, and my father's heirloom was spent to rise this place in order for us to follow." She stood up, slowly, hesitantly, fighting against the pain, with a hand over the belly. Her courage was back within her, but she did not use a loud tone. Lucretia would not confront directly her husband before prying eyes or ears. "Spend coin to receive coin, Quintus." She approached him, still avoiding her eyes, still struggling within. "And I have received nothing."

He still dared not to look at his wife, yet he spoke. "Love. Was not that enough for you?"

There was a pause.

"You know the answer to that, Quintus."

"Your ambitions equal mine," he confirmed. "That always made us stronger."

"And how were you going to provide for us? What were you planing to do with this ludus?"

"Our aim was never staying here," he reminded her, mind in Rome.

"So what? Sell it?" She was promptly answered.

"No. Only my gens would run this place. I would terminate it with games that would be remembered for the years to come, spoken from mouth to mouth through the landscapes of the Republic."

"And what of the gladiators? Kill them all?," she asked. "Sell them? Surely not to Solonius. Free them?," she added in disgust.

"Some would have gained their freedom," he grimly spoke, remembering Barca and his unfortunate death, spending a thought on Varro and ultimately thinking of Spartacus.

Lucretia read his eyes, as she always did. "You still think of the Thracian with affection." There was no approval in her tone.

"Spartacus saved my life, filled our purse and elevated us, I wish you would see that, Lucretia. We owe him, as much as you hate the man."

"I do not hate him," she corrected him. "I simply see him as what he is. And he is a slave. And there was a time when he betrayed Rome."

"Maybe." But he had molded him, polished the surface and turned him into a marvel. And he had only received loyalty, for he had kept his promise. Spartacus had been a man of his word, and in a way, Batiatus respected him.

"Glaber will not allow it. And as much as you _care_ for the Thracian, do not fail to see which hand will ultimately lift you to the Senate."

Both knowing her words spoke the truth, she had regained some confidence to still turn the situation in their favor and tear apart the shades still clouding Quintus' mood and heart.

She desperately wanted to keep that child, and she knew she would not, had her husband the will to expose it, adding faults to the newborn that would make him unworthy of his gens.

Foreseeing that situation, Lucretia had secured any contingencies by choosing Crixus, finding it impossible for him to create a weak life.

Now, she also prayed the child was a boy.

She placed a hand on his shoulder and breathed when he didn't reject it. "Quintus." He turned his head towards hers, still not daring to look at her. "This child will bring us good fortune," she said. "I...I understand now why would you keep the truth." His shoulders tensed. "Think of it as a gift. from the Gods."

"Fucking curious gratitude, that of the Gods, shaming me through my most beloved wife," he bitterly spoke with a coldness that cut deep within her chest.

The tension and the effort by standing up had taken a toll on her body. Lucretia started to feel pain again, yet Batiatus did not notice, more reasons for his recent actions and words reaching the surface.

"It is not only your betrayal, Lucretia, and you fail to see it. If your adulterous act is found, I will be forced to divorce you, if not worse." He could, by law, kill her, and both knew it.

Lucretia fought the pain and remained by his side, listening.

"They would forbid you to remarry, and you would be left with nothing."

There were three reasons why Quintus Lentulus Batiatus was still married to Lucretia. One of them was that he loved her.

"A child," she managed to say amid the increasing pain, "that you could not give us, would solve that, Quintus. Embrace it," she pleaded. Lucretia started to breathe hard and grabbed his shoulder tighter in need of support, starting to lose the balance.

Batiatus noticed it and cast a glance towards his wife, whose tired face showed marks of strain and pain. But he was still hurt to show concern. "I cannot accept a child conceived by traitorous acts, Lucretia."

"No one has to know." Her eyes were closed and her voice but a whisper, pleading, with no strength left.

"People will know. They will see my face."

"You can love him, Quintus."

But Batiatus was blinded, and there was just one thing on his mind, a thought filled with violence and restoration of his broken honour. Kill the bearer of the seed. "Who is the father?"

Silence.

When he turned, furious, to demand an answer, he saw that the silence had a cause distant from the idea of Lucretia defying him refusing to speak. Her face was contorted in pain, stained by tears, mind focused solely on keeping a balance that had seemed to flee her body, desperately seeking support.

He knew she could not answer him in that state. Letting out a tired sigh, Batiatus walked away, depriving Lucretia of support making her stumble, not falling only by sheer will. The corner of his eyes saw her finding the wall to provide her a surface to maintain herself balanced and, pathetically finding her way to the bed, crawling upon it with grief as only company.

Quintus was determined to leave his wife suffering as pennance. He kept those thoughts for as long as he walked out of the room. When he found himself at Naevia's side, standing by the entrance and waiting for any command to be given, he paused.

Lucretia was suffering.

He had kept thoughts of hatred towards her for as long as he had walked out of the room.

The room was a small one.

"Domina is hurting, give her the herbs to calm the pain."

_**OOO**_

_**79 BC**_

_Batiatus had always decided the weapons his gladiators would use. He had seen the potential in Crixus, and had given him the __gladius and scutum of murmillos without doubt. The Gaul did not decieve him, and carried the weapons and helmet with vicious grace._

_The roar of the crowd, the cheering of his name was Crixus' blood, the fight his beating heart. He lived as he __slew his opponents, one by one. And he breathed his glory when he saw Dominus arising, arms open, smiling proud and pushing the crowd louder, crowning him champion of Capua._

_Every time he won a fight, he __raised his sword honoring Dominus. Ever since Domina had required other services of him, he offered her his victory with his eyes, finding her smiling proud from her chair, always with that silent slave girl by her side._

_Today he knew his victory had a greater meaning, for he was fighting against Solonius' men, and their deaths, he knew, would please Dominus._

_Indeed it had. The smile would not leave __the lanista's face. "The champion of Capua arises with greater glory by the day!," he proudly spoke, sharing a knowing look with his wife._

_"Still no man has defeated Theokoles," Solonius reminded him. "I believe your champion of Capua will not have earned his title until he confronts the Shadow of death."_

_"It might be so," said Batiatus not hiding a sneer, "but there was one man that defied your titan's title himself, for the shadow of death did not kill him. And that gladiator lives in the house of Batiatus," he finished triumphantly. He friendly poked Solonius, knowing well how little the man approved of touch and equal treatment of men he thought of as members of lower station. "But put your mind at rest, good Solonius. One day, the champion of Capua will earn the honor rightfully."_

_The crowd roared with Crixus, and Batiatus looked proud at the man bringing him glory in such a day._

_**OOO**_

_"I need your cock inside me. And I need it in me now." (Legends)_

_**OO**_

Once he had left her cubiculum, Batiatus walked towards his room, in much need of privacy. He could have forced Lucretia to tell him who was the father of that creature, but his own regret upon raising his hand against her had prevented him to go further, even more seeing her in pain. He knew it could not be Solonius, nor the magistrate. And Lucretia's words had sounded as if she had shared bed to give them a child. He knew she bore burden for being with no child, but he had not once thought she would go to such lengths as to try with different seeds. One of those occasions they had talked about children, Lucretia had shared with him, even scared of his reaction, the fear that her body was weak and unworthy of his seed.

Then, a thought entered his mind. An unworthy yet strong seed for an unworthy weak body.

His anger increased at the possibility, and finding Ilithyia still in the domus enhanced the sentiment, yet, quick of mind, he soon found a benefit on the unwanted presence. Breathing deep, he managed a gesture resembling a smile and directed himself towards the young woman casually walking along the atrium.

"Ilithyia, apologies, I thought you had left the villa."

"My mind would not rest until it received word of your wife's health,"she said in a perfect worried tone. "Is she well? Is the child—?"

"She is resting," he quickly said before she asked further questions. His mind still rejected the being inside Lucretia like the worst of diseases, and his thoughts were desperately seeking for a name to calm his anger.

"Would she like some company?," she asked. "I am sure the comforting presence of a loving friend would ease her mind."

Batiatus studied her. Whether she was honest towards her feelings for his wife, or it was all a charade to gain access to the pleasure of the ludus, he still did not know. It bothered him that they were forced to keep the woman near, but he knew there was no choice. "You are most welcome to stay," he said.

And maybe he could get something more than their inicial aim.

"I am sure Lucretia will be grateful to have your presence by her side in this grey hour. Your support might be crucial, were the worst to happen."

Ilithyia's senses became alert at Batiatus' change. He had not asked her about her husband, yet he wanted her presence as his wife's side.

Ilithyia knew neither Lucretia nor Batiatus spoke words without a reason behind, and if she had been right, as she hoped she was, Batiatus was clumsily taking himself exactly where Ilithyia wanted him to be.

She merely had to set him on the right path, and that required but a few words. Lucretia would have been different, but Batiatus needed less effort to be lured.

"And there I thought my presence was only wanted as long as my husband's name was attached to it."

"Your husband's presence honours this ludus as much as yours, Ilithyia," he said quickly warming his smile and gently grabbing her by the arm, turning his walk back to Lucretia's room. "But my mind is filled with greater concerns right now."

Ilithyia smiled inside and showed her deepest concern and worry. "Has the medicus said...is her well being at peril?"

Batiatus was serious when he spoke. "Her condition is weak, and the medicus fears for the child and herself, and still my wife bears worry for your husband's presence in this house, were he to come."

"He has already parted towards Capua, but a few days from here."

Batiatus shook his head, and Ilithyia let him lead the conversation, curious to see how the lanista wanted to get the information she knew he was seeking, and suspected she knew, or could acquire for him.

The thought of Batiatus trying to use her amused Ilithyia.

"Lucretia will not be able to be present as hostress," he lamented. "The knowledge will weigh heavy upon her, and I fear I will fail to wave the concern away from her mind." Then he stopped walking and looked at her. "Will you help me in such task?"

"Your wife will have the best of friends by her side."

Batiatus smiled and they resumed their walk. "There is one more thing I would be most grateful, if you were kind enough to grant me this favor."

"Anything, good Batiatus."

"As soon as Lucretia recovers, I want to honor her with games. Publicly, of course, the celebration will find another reason."

And then Ilithyia knew. She extended her smile. "That will be a wonderful idea," she said almost exultant and incredulous at the unknowing tended hand for her to bite. "And who would you have fight in her honor?," she asked.

"That is where your most appreciated friendship is needed. I would be in your debt if you were kind enough to approach her and see who she favours the most. Who she would like to see fighting for her."

"That will not be necessary, good Batiatus."

Batiatus looked at her, slightly confused.

"I already know who is he favoured one."

Batiatus braced himself, for the name he was seeking with anger was about to be revealed.

He should have known.

"And who might that be?"

"It's Crixus."

_**OOOOO**_

**Notes: **the practice of exposure meant for the unwanted children (mostly girls) to be neglected by the father. The unrecognized children were abandoned.


	5. Part V No Glory

**Chapter warnings**: it falls within "_Spartacus: Blood and Sand_" standards. Sex, language, and violence. Nothing which has not seen within the show: bear that in mind, you might read unpleasant things.

**Spoilers**: season 1. In this chapter, mentions of events from episode 5 (_Shadow Games_) and 10 (_Party Favors_). And quotes from _Shadow Games_ (episode 5).

**Disclaimer**: not mine. (neither are the quotes taken from episodes for use on this fic: because the writers are made of awesomesauce, as everything in this show)

**Author's notes**: FROM NOW ON, CHAPTERS SET AFTER EPISODE 11.

_**Edit**_: Some additions in order to adjust Oenomaus' background with a couple of prequel characters.

_**Part V. No glory**_

_**OOOOO**_

_"Your woman. Is she the reason you refuse to die?" "She is." "Then perhaps there is something beyond glory." (Shadow Games)_

_**OO**_

He looked below. Void. A vastness of fields, and hills like the one he was standing upon now. He did not need to turn his head to see what was behind him, he knew it all to well. The training field, the sheltered space in which they ate and rested from the sun of Capua while they waited for the treaining to resume.

The villa.

Somewhere inside it, her.

Never had he sought a bigger space to breathe until now, when she was not with him. Her absence suffocating, his mind seeing but her, yearning for her warm and gentle embrace.

As he looked into the space opening before him, he thought about the place in which he lived, a construction built high, yet on a constraining space to which it had to tame itself.

Adapting to stay alive, standing.

In many aspects, just like him.

He did not like contemplation, nor did he understand it in gladiators. Pensiveness equaled death. And there was no need of reflection where there was glory to train for. But lately he did not seem able to do anything but betraying the very grounds of his beliefs.

And nor he minded.

He still relished the glory. But for new and never expected purposes. Ever since the first man fallen under his sword that night in the ludus, granting him the right to be branded with the mark of the brotherhood and take his oath as gladiator, and with the men that soon would follow in the arena, his sight and thoughts had never parted that newly found sacred ground. That recognition he had never known in his village.

The man had found the pride in being a Gaul through the tongues of the enemy, who had named him by his roots with his newly given identity.

Crixus, the undefeated Gaul.

He had been born with another name, within a tribe known for its warriors. So, as a warrior, he had never excelled among his people, living only to fight until the day of his death came at the end, most probably, of a Roman sword.

And he had found it on his throat soon enough. Inexplicably to him at that moment, his life had been spared.

He used to remember his village while he was taken towards an unknown fate. One worse than life itself, if it meant not fighting anymore. Fighting was all he knew.

And then he had been told.

To be sold to slavery.

The thought tortured the fighting heart and, chained like the animal he was for them, he had found himself confronting a pair of eyes that bore holes into him, seeing something beyond his skin. Within. The owner of those eyes had taken him back to his village and the stories about the druids and their powers beyond the comprehension of his brute mind. And he had wondered if that man seeing behind his eyes was some kind of Roman priest, wanting him as a sacrifice for an offering.

He ignored the traditions of the roman Gods and no other thought explained how would a man pay money for him. He only knew how to fight, and seeing himself chained as he was, not that good fighter. In his mind, he deserved to die. But the man with intense eyes not only had bought him, but even more, in open competition with an older man, apparently seeking the same sacrifice to their Gods.

Him. The enslaved Gaul.

The man soon to be named Crixus had laughed in his mind, for he was but an ordinary warrior, with no special recognition amongst the Allobroges. His sacrificial death would mean nothing to the Roman Gods. He was nothing.

Little had he known.

Soon, though, he would find out, having all his skills for the fight unleashed and nurtured; shaped, polished and improved. By the Romans.

After that he still sometimes looked back on his land, on his childhood as a free boy with a different name. But once inside the ludus, those thoughts had begun to fade away, slowly yet steady. No candle of thought to light a name in ambers. He embraced their Gods as his own, for to be like Gods he believed they were forged in that place. He trained hard, he fought well and, for that, he earned more than what he could have ever gained in his land as a free man.

Now, Crixus needed to remember his land no more.

Thoughts like stars on nights with no moon filled the place left by those memories, distant now, and he embraced them.

A blanket in her absence.

"One would say the once champion of Capua has lost his way, indulging in deep thought."

The blanket was carefully folded and placed on the back of his mind, as he tensed his body at the unwanted and uninvited voice talking by his side. "Maybe Varro enjoyed your company while you expelled your yellow shit, Thracian," he barked. "I do not." Crixus had pursued a confrontation with the Thracian for too long in the arena, but the moment never seemed to come. Maybe his words on his dead friend would taunt the seemingly tamed dog.

Yet, strangely, the Thracian did not move. His tongue, however, had yet to be leashed.

"Varro and I ha—"

"I give no shit care about your losses, Thracian. Enough people have met undeserved deaths since you set foot in this ludus. Save your talk for whoever wishes to hear it."

Spartacus fell silent for a moment., not wavering, not leaving. "Straight words, then, if you grant me a moment." He received a grunt for an answer, but the Gaul did not move, seeking something with his eyes. "We are not friends, Crixus, never will be."

"A truth you seem to ignore whenever suitable."

"But you taught me valuable lessons."

"Keeping your tongue bound as you do with your cock does not seem to be one of them," he replied wrily.

"True," came the honest and unexpected answer. Crixus' ears listened to the Thracian despite his will not to do so. "That was not. But I treasure those which reached my stubborn mind, and for them I am grateful."

Crixus remained silent for a second, his eyes stubbornly fixed on Naevia, fading under the Thracian's presence. "Doctore should be training us right now, where the fuck is the man?" He asked disgustedly to no one, hoping Spartacus would go.

He did not.

"Doctore was summoned inside the villa."

"Then say whatever you came to say, Thracian, training awaits and my sword longs for your face."

Spartacus ignored the tone. "You taught me the real meaning of brotherhood, Crixus. And how to stay alive."

For the first time in the conversation, Crixus turned his head, meeting Spartacus' eyes looking at him. He had never been able to read those eyes, it was as if there was always something else behind them.

"If you still think I spared your worthless life against the Shadow of Death and agaisnt the Gaul—"

"I know why you saved me," said Spartacus, clearly remembering Crixus' words about his fate and deserved death as a gladiator. Probably at his hands. "But you gave me time to realize that I had taken the wrong path," he added, with his eyes beyond those words. "And I wish to repay you with the same coin, were your ears to grant me a few moments."

Crixus considered for a moment, his face in his characteristic tensed and contained sneer. "Speak then. And then get out of my sight."

"At the arena, before we fought Theokoles, you mentioned my wife as my strength to stay alive."

Yes, he did. He still ignored what had made him ask the Thracian such a question.

"I told you she was."

Crixus remembered that answer. For he had understood how could that be. He fought the smile weaving its way to his lips and remained frozen in his spot.

"She still is," he continued. Spartacus studied Crixus. He knew the Gaul was listening to him, but his face could not be read. Spartacus hoped his words were reaching his ears and finished his studied talk. "Whatever new strength you found that day, that led you to ask such a question, I know it was what kept you alive against the giant. I owe her my life as I do to you. And I am grateful that strength still has a beating heart, not just a memory of what was lost and will never be found again."

Crixus had been told by Doctore. The wife had died. He thought of Naevia and something inside flinched.

Sura. She was in his heart, in his mind. Her mention reachd the pits of his throat, making it difficult to talk. Yet he did the effort, for the words needed to be spoken. "You are a very fortunate man, Crixus."

Soon, he was alone again, turning his head to see the Thracian leave. Then, his eyes went back to their task, feeling the voids of distant memories with Naevia. Whatever made the Thracian speak words when nothing had been on friendly terms between them, Crixus ignored, But his last words remained, echoing inside, and he could not hate him anymore, despite how much he wished to take his mantle back from the fallen Hellene. In the arena

"Crixus."

This time the voice was not of a gladiator.

It was one of the guards.

"You're summoned."

_**OOO**_

Naevia had lived all her life inside the domus, most of the years she could remember, under Domina's care. With her, she had learnt to be patient and attent. To be gentle and soft to the touch. To give pleasure, as such task she was expected to carry out whenever commanded. She had also mastered the skill of never speaking out of turn, and always choosing the right moment to speak, or ask.

Domina had always been good for her, and despite knowing she was risking everything for having fallen for the man her protector owned and desired, defying her rage, which she also had met on her own flesh –Barca's death the last time she had been slapped– she could not deny she should be grateful, not angered.

Standing by the entrance, waiting for any command demanded, she had heard the conversation between her owners, turning livid when Dominus had demanded to know the child's father's name. She had feared for Crixus' life, her heart almost stopping when she had heard but silence, waiting with her eyes as closed as she could get hem, for the name of her love parting Domina's lips. But she had heard nothing. Domina, against her own husband, had protected Crixus.

Maybe they were fortunate after all. Yes. Fortunate they were, for had not it been for Domina, she would have never known Crixus' touch.

Her pace was always studiedly soft and silent. She was to be a presence unnoticed, undisturbing. When she approached the entrance to the cubiculum where Domina was, she softened her walk as much as she could, careful not to wake her were she to be in much needed slumber.

She was not, and the sight made Naevia wince.

Domina was laying on her side, hunched, hands on her stomach trying hopelessly to ease the ache inside. Her face was not contorted in pain, yet it spoke of hurt and sadness and...fear, all framed with beads of sweat. Naevia's insides churned in unforeseen sympathy and she hurried her walk.

"Domina," she whispered softly, waiting.

Domina did not even stir. She was awake, but her whirling aching mind seemed to have taken her away from the living.

Naevia attempted a gentle hand on her forearm, carefully holding the container with the infussion on the other hand, and spoke again, this time a little louder. "Domina." While she waited for her to react, Naevia took the linen cloth she had brought with herself, gentling her owner's forehead with it to clean the sweat.

Finally, she opened her eyes, and Naevia stopped her task, waiting, silent, for her reaction.

"Naevia..."

Domina's voice, as lost and tired as her eyes, spoke with sadness. Naevia offered her the infussion with her usual light bow, parting her eyes away in a manner of respect. "I brought you medicine, Domina. For the pain."

But with the side of her eye she saw Domina looking at the bowl, unsure. As if she did not deserve to drink it. "Dominus asked me."

Then something else occurred to Naevia. Maybe that was not why Domina hesitated. "I asked the medicus. It does not harm the baby."

She had heard Dominus' reaction. And she had learnt the lengths he could go to, in order to achieve his plans. It had not been the fact that he had killed Barca; as much as it pained her, that he could do. But the reasons behind the gladiator's death.

Would he reject a son, knowing it was not his seed what brought it to life? Would Dominus kill the baby? Naevia knew the herbs of the house. She had stolen the silphium kept for the slaves whose chastity was not needed preserved, for herself when she had started to make love with Crixus. And she knew some of those medicinal plants could harm a baby.

Domina hesitated by staying still, fearing.

Lately, knowing she had placed herself in a dire position, Naevia had spent thoughts on them. Mira always kept her distance, both with Dominus and Domina, and had never trusted either. But Mira had been brought in as an enslaved woman, having known freedom at some point in her life. So Naevia guessed Mira saw them in a different light that she failed to comprehend. To her they were her protectors.

Insisting, she offered the potion. "I prepared it myself."

For some reason, Domina had always shown signs of trust towards her that she did not conceed to any other slave in the house, and finally, Naevia's words achieved the desired reaction, and as Domina slowly and with effort used her elbow to sit up, Naevia placed the bowl on the floor and helped her to prevent further pain, offering firm support for the weakened woman, promptly giving her the recipient and offering a gentle smile when she slowly drank it, letting the warm liquid settle in her stomach and sighing deeply. Naevia resumed her task of cleaning her face.

"Gratitude, Naevia."

Maybe she was showing gratitude for more than just a simple medicine, Naevia mused. But she kept her thoughts inside following her trained and instilled discretion and slave status, knowing Domina was not expecting any answer from her. Simply nodding with a bow of her head, Naevia took back the bowl and, making sure Domina was comfortable and resting back again, she remained silent, ready for command.

Domina never shared confidences with her slaves. She did not mind having them around except for certain moments, but did not talk to them, and they would not expect anything else.

So Naevia did not know how to react when Domina spoke again.

"I fear for this child's life, Naevia," she told her, confirming the slave's suspicions. She was not looking at her, but at her stomach, which she gently rubbed with a softened face. So vulnerable, the slave reflected.

Naevia wanted the baby to live. As long as he was Domina's favored, it would be Crixus' only chance to know the joy of fatherhood. Even more, seeing his child free as a rightful Roman citizen, not a slave. She didn't want to bear a child, even if she was granted permission by Domina, that would not be free, for she knew that, freedom, would never happen. Maybe Crixus could buy his freedom for himself. But never for her. And secretly, Naevia cherised the thought of taking care of Crixus' son, even if it was not theirs.

The slave remained silent; surely her owner was not expecting her to answer, merely releasing through desperate whispered words some of the tension which was surely harming her insides.

_**OOO**_

Crixus walked through the training sand towards the house. Doctore was not there, and the gladiators were silently practicing on their own, each taking their practice swords ever since the boy Pietros took his life, not able to endure Barca's freedom. He had thought him a fool. He had laughed at Naevia for caring for such a weak soul.

Now he wondered.

But as he approached the domus, Crixus parted from those thoughts and focused his mind on the task he was to take.

Crixus had known and perfected the pleasures of the flesh inside the ludus, with the whores sent to them, were they to spend coin, and gaining as much skill on the bed as on the sand. But the first time Domina had summoned him he had been so petrified to see that his master's wife desired his cock, eventually also the man behind it that he had hardly been able to perform, clumsily barreling his way inside at first, then realizing, trying to act so delicately that he had but arisen a burst of condescending laughter from a humiliatingly amused Domina. He thought she would despise him, but she had granted him a second, then a third visit. And he had closed his eyes and taken the woman, who would progresively give herself to him in body, without reservations, and always demanding; sometimes wanting gentle touch, most of the times commanding him to thrust his cock roughly, to savour her breasts and her lower lips, having her hand pressing his face towards them, demanding he entered her further. He had also learned words of love and adoration. Domina delighted herself not only on his physical services, but also on having him acknowledge continuously her title over him, and she wanted it to be stated out also in his voice.

Crixus was grateful for being inside that ludus, grateful for having been favored by Domina.

It had brought him and Naevia together.

He was a gladiator soon to taste again the glory as the champion of Capua. Pericles had been the new start, and now, all his victories went to her, to the silent smile standing behind Domina, giving him a force he had never dreamed he could have.

"Wait here."

The dry guard left him beside the impluvium, waiting, secretly smiling, for Naevia to come for him.

Every stolen instant counted.

Not today.

"Crixus."

Crixus turned immediately at the known voice.

Doctore's grave eyes faced him.

The smile faded.

"Dominus awaits."

_**OOO**_

_"May the Gods grant us a miracle. They fucking owe us." (Shadow Games)_

_**OO**_

The medicine Naevia had brought her quickly took effect, and the pain calmed down enough to let her breathe without constant cramps echoing as fear of loss. Lucretia could sit back in a comfortable position, yet the thoughts of her conversation with Quintus did not leave her mind. And the way he had asked for the father. For her, the father was Quintus, regardless of who had planted seed. She wished he could see that. She wished she had not been hurting so much as to not being able to talk when he had asked the name. Maybe knowing it was Crixus would calm his rage and the pain of his lies, as much as she understood them. Had she known about his infertility, she would have probably never married him. And she had known love with him, love and dreams, dreams that they were close to attain, after all these years and labours.

A son would only ehnance them.

She wished the blind creature left for the honorable man and loving husband to return, understanding why had she done it. Despite her conflicting feelings for Crixus and her own desires, she had ultimately done it for them. For Quintus to see his name continued in the line of time.

But if her husband did not wish the child, the months the creature remained growing inside, changing her body, making itself noticed, would be the only time she would have to share with it.

Her thoughts were severed by a feminine voice.

"The face of an expecting woman should be radiant, not clouded."

Ilithyia entered the room.

"The fear still has my heart clutched in its hands," responded Lucretia, trying to leave the thoughts about Quintus in the back of her mind. Protecting. Still, she could not but wonder about Ilithyia's presence. And how, incomprehensibly, her sight warmed her.

The younger woman approached rapidly, looking at her in sympathy and quickly sitting by her side, caressing her face. "You're warm," she noticed.

"It will pass," said Lucretia trying to find a smile where there was none. She knew Ilithyia studied her face, but Lucretia was too tired to conceal, and a tear escaped her eye, never reaching her mouth, stopped by Ilithyia's soft finger collecting it. The kiss Lucretia expected came, but in the most gentle way, and on her forehead, like a mother would kiss her daughter. Like Lucretia, many times, in her solitude, had secretly imagined she would kiss her child.

"I will not see you cry in a time of joy," said Ilithyia. She tentatively placed her hand on Lucretia's belly, with that exploring look she had grown to learn, as if she were discovering something new and exciting, and Lucretia covered it with hers, gently.

Closing her eyes and imagining it was her husband's hand the one providing the warm and calming touch, gently rubbing her belly, caressing for a life whose fate, as much as she wanted, was not for Lucretia to decide.

Devastating yet unavoidable. And Lucretia feared she would not be able to survive the loss if she were to carry the baby inside, hold it in her arms, protective, loving. She pressed her hand against Ilithyia's and closed her eyes harder.

"Your husband must be—"

Lucretia's eyes widened and she released her hand, softly but steady.

"Lucretia?" Ilithyia cocked her head to a side, studying her face in worried frown.

Lucretia managed a smile. "He is filled with joy."

The baby was not hers to keep.

"And concerned as well," ilithyia said.

Concerned. Not quite.

As hard as it was, Lucretia tried not to forget who stood beside her, and the exchange of vacuous pleasanteries and half trues began. For there was no other option. "The baby is still within," she informed Ilithyia, "yet the medicus is not tranquil enough as to secure us with calming thoughts. Quintus does not fare well with certain concerns," she said. As uneasily vulnerable as she was feeling, Lucretia tried not to lie without unveiling the truth.

"And you?"

They both exchanged a look. One was preying, the other defending. And a truth spoken to divert the eyes from the game.

"I fear for my child's life."

It came out honest, as it was no lie. And Ilithyia reacted in her usual way of touch and closeness, yet not kissing her lips a single time. And Lucretia saw her...she would not know what to call her, for her feelings for the younger woman were conflicting in their nature; but she could see worry in her as she gently brushed her damp hair away from the forehead. "You're still warm," she insisted.

Lucretia grabbed her hand and softly parted it from her face. It was not the moment to fall under her spell of gentle words and caresses. She could not forget that the woman standing with her, giving the protective touch Lucretia desperately needed from her husband, was a formidable opponent, one that equaled herself and with the passion of a youth Lucretia could only confront with the wisdom attained by the experience of a longer life.

She was not sure anymore to what extent she could really control the younger woman, and the thought scared her.

"It will pass, Ilithyia."

But the blonde would not listen, as she looked at Naevia. Ilithyia did not lose a moment, and turning her head, addressed the slave girl. "Bring water to your Domina."

To Domina's nod, Naevia did as commanded and both patricians remained alone in the room.

Inside, Ilithyia smiled again.

One more piece set in position.

_**OOO**_

He had never risen after dawn.

Had never missed a prayer to his deities, beliefs instilled by his parents, despite growing far from their mother land, thankful that Dominus had granted him permission to set a small altar in his room, never demanding from him cult to the Roman Gods.

Dominus was an honorable man.

Not once inside the ludus had he taken a sip of drink that was not water. He still regretted having done so under Spartacus' kind words, reminding him of his wife.

Melitta.

Never a day would pass when Oenomaus would not seek and reserve a private moment to focus his thoughts on her. That last sight of his wife's body battered, dying from the blade as he was taken from her. Only the thought of his Celt friend hopefully finding her and giving Melitta the burial she deserved eased his anguish. Gannicus would do that.

He had never been betrayed by the man who had given him the chance to live past the humiliation of being defeated, even naming, much against his own will, his licking against the Shadow of Death as a feat, for he had lived, preferring him to Doctore of the ludus ever since.

Never, ever had he questioned Dominus' commands.

Neither denied his status as a slave, not once fighting for them. But always controlling his men.

He kept an eye on Spartacus, who he had respected for moments, and for who he had grieved when his wife had arrived with her life pouring out of the wound on her chest, fragile, clinging to life until she rested in his arms. Man of continuous mistakes inside the ludus, miraculously alive for his victories, Spartacus had recovered that look he saw in him when he first came. That of the Thracian stripped of bounds, like an unleashed Molossian dog.

And then, there was Ashur. He had never liked the Syrian, nor he had understood why Dominus would keep him after the wound inflicted by Crixus. Slaves with a mind were far more dangerous than those who only had muscle. Dominus trusted much in his authority over his ludus, and Doctore was of the mind that both Spartacus and Ashur were to be leashed tight, whereas their owner was giving them far too much loose rope.

But Oenomaus had also never underestimated Dominus. It was true that slaves with a mind were dangerous. Maybe that was why he had always trusted Barca as his accompanying force. He knew the beast of Carthage bore complete loyalty to Dominus, and his only dreams of freedom came through using coin rightfully earned.

His mind wondered for a moment. About Barca. And Pietros. And Ashur.

And Spartacus.

But if there was a single man among his equals that he had never questioned, who he had respected from the beginning and for who he trully wished good fortune, that was Crixus.

And it seemed unfair to him that the Gaul was to pay for being what he was, a slave to his masters, forced to follow commands.

There was no justice in that.

While he guided Crixus to the room Dominus used for his trades, his pace slowed under the weigh of the task he was to perform, mentally claiming his discipline back so his hand would not waver as it threatened to do while he held the cord, for that would only cause one of the few men he could get close to call friend, to suffer even more.

That day was the first in which Doctore had questioned Batiatus.

And had found that the fact he had done so, had opened the gates to knew questions he had never thought of before. All tied to names.

Barca.

Spartacus' wife.

Pietros.

Oenomaus had never questioned Dominus. Doing so for the first time had hurt. And he wondered if that was but the first of many painful dents on his trust and respect to come.

_**OOO**_

Crixus had never known Dominus to be a man of meandering words. He was always direct, and the same he demanded from his men. In the numerous Roman celebrations he had attended as a gladiator for the House of Batiatus, he had many times heard other Romans make jokes of him, calling Dominus little man. But to them he was their protector and owner, and to him they owed loyalty and honour. And no gladiator would dare even to think of him as a little man, for his eyes, only his eyes, spoke of power and strength, making the man look bigger than what sight showed.

Dominus was sitting, looking at him with that penetrating look and no amusement on his face.

"Dominus."

He saw Doctore going towards the table, grabbing something and standing still, his back turned from him.

"Before me stands Crixus, the mighty Gaul. The house of Batiatus shines under his quests and triumphs. Glory bursts."

His words bore no pride in the tone in which they were spoken. Crixus tensed.

"Tie him."

Two guards emerged, binding a confused Crixus with shackles around his wrists and ankles. Batiatus stood up and approached him. Doctore would not move.

"Tell me, Crixus. What is glory for you?"

Crixus, still confounded, managed to answer. "Honouring this ludus with my victories in the arena, Dominus," he said, his sight straight never finding, never seeking,Batiatus' eyes in a manner of respect, like he had always done.

"This ludus?"

"Yes, Dominus."

"Me?"

"Always, Dominus."

"Then how is it that you honor me and you fuck my wife behind my eyes?," he began in a low tone, rapidly increasing, ending with an enraged cry followed by a blow he did not see coming.

The sandal hit him below his chest with enough force to deprive him from air for a few moments. Crixus coughed while the guards held him.

He thought of Naevia and the fear of not seeing her again.

Doctore finally moved, and with his head looking down, Crixus was able to see the ebony hand grasping a cord.

"No, Crixus, I differ. The glory you seek lies not only in the sand, on your sword, but also on your cock!" The mentioned member received the second kick. "Your time as a favored of glory meets his end today, slave."

Amid the pain, Crixus saw Doctore already standing in front of him, close enough for the Gaul to hear his tense, almost impercetible breath.

"Strip him from his subligaria."

Looking again at Doctore's hand, Crixus understood.

"No more glory for you, Crixus, the fallen fucking Gaul," breathed Batiatus through gritted teeth before turning away.

Crixus felt the pressure, and for a moment, the panic of what was to come blinded the excruciating pain that soon followed.

One sight, one thought before his conscience blissfully took him.

His bloodied testes on the floor.

Naevia.

And then, darkness.

_**OOOOO**_


	6. Part VI Forlorn Figures

**Chapter warnings**: it falls within "_Spartacus: Blood and Sand_" standards. Sex, language, and violence. Nothing which has not seen within the show: bear that in mind, you might read unpleasant things.

**Spoilers**: With season 1 over, not really spoilers, but there's mention of events from episode 1 (_The Red Serpent_) and 9 (_Whore_).

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

**Author's notes:** FROM NOW ON, CHAPTERS SET AFTER EPISODE 11 (_Old Wounds_). _Revelations _(1x12) and _Kill them All_ (1x13) are not canon for this fic.

**Credit & Acknowledgements: **

staringiscaring: Sami's depiction of Naevia in her fic inspired and helped me to build and write the slave in mine, so part of the merit of my Naevia, goes to her.

xenokattz: Katt generously gave away some of her time in pointing me into right directions to deal with Ilithyia's background, namely having Ilithyia motherless in her specific family (Ilithyia is not the same as Lucretia's, and so the outcome is different) and above all, Ilithyia's mother's death (puerperal sepsis / childbed fever).

(the possible errors or poor result in the writing –depends on the reader, one guesses– are my merits, not theirs).

_**OOOOO**_

_**Part VI. Forlorn figure**__**s**_

_**OOOOO**_

_"Thrace." _

_He nodded. "In two days." _

_Ilithyia let her slave comb her loose hair while her husband informed her of his campaigning plans. She had her back turned from him, and idly studied her face in the mirror while she talked to Gaius. "Do you trust them?" _

_Her tone evidenced disinterest, leaving Glaber wondering how much Ilithyia cared to know her husband other than for attaining her flawless charming wife image in public, or luring him with success to her lavish appetite in bed. Or any other place she saw fit. It annoyed him that she would ask such a question. _

_Trust them? _

_Glaber spoke with disgust filling his mouth. "They will be under my command, Ilithyia. If they refuse to bend, I will break them. I bear no need to trust them." _

_He stared at the turned figure, and waited for a reaction. Ilithyia commanded the slave to stop with a slight gesture of her head and filled his ears, not with the supporting tone he would expect from his wife. No; that she reserved only for their public appearances. In private she liked taunting._

_"So you do not trust them." _

_Sometimes Glaber wished he had sought wife in another proper woman. But Ilithyia had a certain grasp on him beyond his own political ambitions. She was an intoxicating, tantalizing woman in need of tame. Transgressing and flouting was an appealing game for her, and he could not allow such thing. _

_"No Greek tyranny, democracy, monarchy or empire has been able to hold itself whole, and now they are but ambers of what they were. Fallen men who thought themselves gods. They are scum, Ilithyia." His last words were spitted, rather than spoken. _

_Ilithyia recognized the tone and smiled inwardly. Then, calmly, taking her time, she turned to look at her husband, letting a smirk decorate her sculpted face. _

_"But you use them."_

_Flouting. Tantalizing. Taunting. _

_Had she known the love of a mother, Glaber frequently reflected, she might have subdued that wilderness, so unmistakably hers, dwelling close to the surface; but a life as a spoiled daughter, living image of her late mother, as her father often mentioned, had rotten her insides, and Glaber despised the side of him that was inextricably attracted to it._

_Ilithyia was the fifth child of Senator Albinius. The only daughter. And the last he would ever have. Ilithyia had narrated Glaber her mother's death, as she had demanded the midwife to do so years before; her father would never speak of such dark day. _

_When he had asked her why she would want to know that, she had simply looked at him, and, devoid of any feeling coloring her tone, had told him because she had wanted to. _

_Soon after the birth, her mother had started to warm up, complaining of sudden pains in her head. As her breathing would quicken its rhythm, the midwife had thought Ilithyia's mother was nervous for her child, as she was not feeling strong enough to hold their coveted girl. Having ensured the continuity of the gens with boys, Albinius and his wife, as wealthy patricians, were a family who could take pleasure in birthing a girl. Ilithyia had been a gift from the Gods, coming when all hope was gone._

_But the fast breathing was far from being maternal distress, for it was followed by a much worse and unpleasant outcome. Liquid would start flowing in between her thighs, and only the odor alerted the sleeping slaves guarding their Domina while the child was taken care of on another room. Her mother was too weak to cry from the pains she felt until there was nothing more left: her life discharged, pouring from her insides._

_With no further need of a wife, Senator Albinius had not taken another woman in marriage, and had dedicated his love to his beautiful daughter, a girl who would shape herself careless of the boundaries required of a woman, for she had grown up among men, including a father unable to deny her anything, and having no female reference other than slaves. Customs, laws, traditions. They had not been made for her. Her rebellious mind had found a way to wield power despite of her condition as a woman. Every men favored her, and the seduction and temptation had been too strong for Glaber to avoid. He had only passed concern of everything because she stood as a proper Roman, wife of Legatus Glaber, whenever the occasion needed it so. And keeping his wife on his side assured his way beyond Legatus with a father who did not bear affection for him, but had blind and exaggerated love for his daughter._

_With Ilithyia, everything came with a price._

_Glaber studied her. She suddenly seemed more interested in their talk. He wondered why. She rarely talked without purpose. "I will use any resource available, Ilithyia. In war, there is but one path. That of victory. And I will see it so."_

_"You speak of the Greeks with contempt," she said, still provoking._

_The statement made him quirk an eyebrow in question. "As you would not?"_

_There was an almost perverted curiosity in Ilithyia towards forbidden and dark. Yet another trait Glaber found embarrassing. But she bore no concern of the effect that insolent attitude brought around her. Even more, she seemed to find pleasure in it, as she nurtured the ambiguity with skill and almost a sick devotion._

_Ilithyia answered his query. "Beyond their defeat, people still speak of their heroes, like the Spartan king."_

_"Spoken as such by a Greek." Irritated by Ilithyia's constant challenge, Glaber took a cup, soon filled with wine by the slave holding the pottery jar, not noticing Ilithyia had stood up and slowly walked towards him. "His act was but a defeat. I would not see myself elevated to glory leading a mission that would end up in my death."_

_By the moment he finished talking, a warm hand touched his neck, making Glaber turn towards her eyes, focused in his mouth. "Nor would I." Then she returned his look and smirked. "But I wonder how would it be having you as a hero of the Republic. Alive." Her fingers glided over his cheekbone. "Receiving honor and glory." His chin. "Power." His lips._

_Glaber took the inviting hand in his, bringing his wife closer, so she could feel the hardening below. "Your tongue. It has a mind of its own. Twists and turns words with skill."_

_Ilithyia let her free hand slide downwards, at the same time coming closer so her mouth brushed his as she talked, never parting her eyes from him. "Only in my husband's favour."_

_"I would see it favour me in other ways."_

_As an answer he saw the tip of it wetting her lips; then as she got closer to his ear, he closed his eyes instinctively to feel the warm pleasure of the soft surface playfully surrounding, then sucking, his earlobe, feeling the full arousal as the hand started to stroke his penis. _

_He took her wrists and placed them behind his neck, grabbing her from the back of her knees, already seeking the flesh of her buttocks as he guided them to their bed._

_"You speak of power with a quick mind," he said between increasingly intense kisses. _

_"You are destined for greatness. I am but securing our future."_

_"Then perhaps," he said guiding his penis inside her with his hand as her open legs invited him in, "you should consider your role in that matter by assuring us the continuity of my name. For the generations to come."_

_**OOO**_

She could control her.

She had to.

They were too close to patronage, and if the time came to use Ilithyia's hand in Licinia's death, Lucretia knew she would have to resort to all her wit and power over the younger woman to keep her tied short and taut.

And it still troubled her to have conflicted feelings. Some sort of desire she could not draw in her mind. Lucretia's eyes had always been blind to women, never arousing her unless it was a woman being thrust by Quintus in front of her. But in her mind, the vision of two women together brought nothing but indifference.

Until Ilithyia. Her fiery eyes, her kisses, her sensuality.

She had suppressed those improper feelings from her mind, burying them under Quintus' love and Crixus' cock inside of her. These days she found it harder to maintain her composure, as if an unseen force tangled with her mind.

Maybe the newly untamed mood was related to her being with child, but the feeling of vulnerability was a weakness Lucretia could not subdue herself under, never where Ilithyia was concerned.

"I am fine and more rested now, Ilithyia," she insisted in an attempt to stop the gentle, caring contact.

Ilithyia, deep in thought, eyes set on Lucretia's belly, did not pay attention neither to Lucretia's words, nor to her reassuring, internally tormenting, smile. "My husband craves for children," she suddenly said.

"As any husband would."

It was an instinctive answer. For an instant, Lucretia wondered if it had not been a stranger the one speaking those words. She had never questioned that fact, yet after her husband's revelation, her mind pondered tortured whether the statement was true or not with Quintus; she had given them the miracle sought; and he had repudiated it.

Ilithyia's answer to such affirmation was as unexpected as honest.

"And what if the wife was not sure of wanting such thing?" Her absent eyes came back, seeking in Lucretia's an answer.

Lucretia did not know what to say. How could a woman not want to bear children? How could a wife not act as such and fulfill her role?

Then again, neither Ilithyia nor herself were 'proper', yet there was a chasm that framed their relationship over their similarities. Everything Lucretia had risked, had done defying Roman laws and traditions, had been with and for them.

Quintus and her.

Ilithyia was a voracious woman, brought up in a more permissive and privileged world, one that Lucretia had but imagined and longed for. A world she had never known. A world for which the woman sitting in front of her was the key.

The hand, resting again on her belly, severed the logic from her mind, taunting it to the point she had to fight it back fiercely.

Ilithyia's words made the aim almost impossible to attain.

"Lately, I have found my insides turned." Her thumb moved over Lucretia's belly, stroking the surface gently.

Furious with her heart's uncontrolled feelings, Lucretia grasped them until they breathed no more, and fighting her own will, she stopped Ilithyia's hand and placed it apart from her body. "I am sure your husband will receive the change with joy."

Ilithyia had come to love the way Lucretia provoked her with intended lurking words. Welcoming the intention, she waited for the older woman to speak, merely answering her words with a pleasant smile.

"Have you had words with my husband regarding patronage?," she casually asked.

An offensive hand defied Lucretia's intention to keep her afar, and Ilithyia took hers on her own, bringing them to her heart. Breast. "My concern took the task away from my mind."

"A concern not to be in your mind."

"Feelings obey no reason, Lucretia."

Ilithyia felt her tense.

"But worry not. I spoke to my husband," she said hiding her lie under a smile and receiving a sigh of relief.

It amused her how Lucretia seemed to fall under her lies. Yet every time she would react, rising again. Licinia's death weighed heavy, not only in her conscience. She mentally calculated the time the slave had been gone. Knowing where the girl fetched the water, she only had a few minutes. Ilithyia studied her words carefully.

"My husband will soon have his presence in this house, and all will be as it should."

_As it should._

"As it should, then," Lucretia repeated more calmed and in control. The thought of securing patronage for them suddenly brought a new hope for her: maybe the good news would soften Quintus.

Maybe she still had a chance with the child her heart wanted so much to love but dared not to until she knew it would be hers to keep.

Ilithyia noticed the change on Lucretia's expression. She looked more serene, and the corner of her lips timidly curved upwards. Ilithyia's mind wandered for an instant. A thought was spent on the baby that had brought in her a new fascinating feeling she could not completely describe towards Lucretia. Protectiveness, perhaps. The thought was quickly erased and she changed her expression, slowly parting her eyes from Lucretia's belly.

Lucretia scrutinized Ilithyia. There was a hint of sadness in her.

She would not ask.

Ilithyia didn't need her to, for she spoke, as if oblivious to Lucretia's struggle. "I had a little secret yet I realized joy might turn into sorrow."

She did not want to ask.

Ilithyia couldn't care less.

"Your husband knows," she said, as if suddenly understanding some enigma roaming inside of her. "The games."

Lucretia surrendered. If she did not speak, Ilithyia would do it for her. "What games?"

"Your husband approached me on a subject, wearing nothing but your well-being in his mind, claiming to have no other desire than seeing his wife smile again in front of Capua, if not Rome itself. He would have games prepared, a celebration disguised, for the fights would be in your honor, and that of your child."

"Like I said, Quintus' heart is filled with joy." Never had it been so difficult to hide feelings under a smile.

"No."

Ilithyia's negative crushed the effort.

"Clear you words of vagueness, Ilithyia." Lucretia felt her heart beating faster.

"Oh, apologies, I did not mean to worry you."

"Far from your intentions, I'm sure."

"Your husband, already making preparations in his mind, asked me about your favored one. He will see him fight to the death in his Domina's honor."

She had hoped. She had thought maybe she could change his mind, as many times before. But ultimately, who had always had the other grasped at will, as it was evident now, of all times, had been him, not her. Never her.

There was no hope for Crixus but the one he could give upon himself, as the righteous champion of Capua. If he lived, and he could very well do, he would still be there.

"I know how you must feel," said Ilithyia.

The touch on the belly accompanying those words had a very significant and different meaning this time. The change on Ilithyia's face did too, and Lucretia didn't like it.

"Crixus is the father."

"My child will wear his father's name, Ilithyia. He is the son of Batiatus," she said resolved. Her heart only wished to feel the words were true.

But it seemed far from her grasp.

"I understand your...feelings for the Gaul. But you must not concern yourself with them, Lucretia. If he falls in the arena, be but grateful, for the slave does not deserve your feelings towards him."

"I never lov-"

"I would not agree so." She cupped Lucretia's face, feeling her victory approaching as she had, once more, lured to the surface the vulnerable woman who saw how her power and control were thrashed.

She thought she heard someone approaching.

"Your eyes betray you. And it pains to see my friend ragged when she finds out the truth."

She did not fight the firm grasp on her wrists, separating her hands from Lucretia's cheeks. Neither she avoided the intense blue stare showing revolt behind them.

The corner of her eyes confirmed the arrival she was expecting, and Ilithyia made sure Lucretia did not notice. "While Crixus' hands touched you," she said caressing her arms and shoulders, and neck, and face again, "his mind and heart wished for another woman."

"You are lying."

"I am not." Ilithyia slightly turned her eyes towards the entrance, making Lucretia's do the same.

A silent figure stood by the entrance. Naevia, grabbing a jar. Frozen still.

"Bring me the water, Naevia, do not stay there."

Naevia approached, looking down. If she hadn't, she would have seen the glee in Ilithyia's eyes.

If Lucretia would have been less concerned about her child and less furious about the notion of Crixus' betrayal, she would have noticed the tension defining every muscle in her slave's body.

But none did. Until a scream echoed on the very ends of the villa. It was a scream of pain, and both women knew the owner of the voice dying in agony only to suddenly silence itself.

Crixus.

The jar fell on the floor, breaking in several pieces and leaving a puddle of water.

"Domina." Her voice hardly reached the mouth, and the air escaped, difficult to breathe.

Lucretia heard her. Apologizing. As she usually did. But the face. Her face. When she finally looked at her and saw the pain, fear and agony that only love could awaken in a woman.

The object of Crixus' affection.

Naevia.

_**OOO**_

_**75 BC**_

_Her day ended when her masters' did. Sometimes, later. Naevia liked the moments she let herself have before sleep, for she lived without attentive ears, always waiting to be commanded. Those were the moments of conscious rest. _

_Some slaves hated those, for they meant their minds were free to remind them the humiliations of the day. This happened with the slaves Dominus used. And the experience was harder when taken from those who had not been born deprived of their freedom. _

_One of the most rebellious was a slave called Mira._

_Naevia contained the wince when she saw Mira entering in silence, her face stained with tears and a cut lip._

_The slave sat on the floor, face unreadable except for the pain and rage in her reddened eyes, arising concern in Naevia. Tears and wounds were common among the slaves at the end of the day. And most envied Naevia's privileged position. That envy was reflected in her loneliness among her equals. She had been the only baby born inside the ludus allowed to remain in it. Her mother,_ _Domina's favorite, had been blessed with it. The blessing had resulted in Naevia's curse. She had passed most of her time alone, not understanding the quiet hatred felt in private from the other slaves until she had been old enough to comprehend. Until she had been forced to prepare Domina whenever it was required; until she had seen Dominus force his way into other girls. And she had realized that was not what Domina wanted for her._

_Mira, the enslaved girl from distant shores, had been the first to treat her without care of what the rest said. The other slaves had warned her of the privileged girl. Mira had her own mind. She decided who she liked and who she disliked. _

_The only gentle touch Naevia had ever felt not coming from her mother, had been Mira's. If she lost her due to her rebellious nature, Naevia would be alone again._

_Determined, she sat beside the only person she dared to think as a friend. She remained silent. Mira was a woman of quick tongue, not needing to be encouraged. A trait Naevia wished would disappear from her. For her own good._

_As predicted, she spoke._

_"Domina hit me."_

_"Domina always has a reason to do so."_

_"I looked at her." She bit her lip. "Glared."_

_"Mira..."_

_There was more, Domina did not stain her hand on slaves for a look._

_"She called me bitch, with no purpose behind," the slave replied justifying herself._

_"You forget your place," admonished Naevia. "Mira, you are a slave. You should be thankful you are under Domina's care. What if they sold you away? What if you were placed under Dominus' instead?" This time she whispered the words. Mira was only offered in special occasions, not as a common slave to please her master's bodily demands. "You are to be discreet, Mira, when will you learn your place?"_

_Mira looked at her. The rage boiled behind the eye, and it traveled fast to the tongue. "This. Is not my place."_

_Slap._

_"You fool!" hissed in a whisper Naevia, closing the offensive hand which hurt as much as the pain it caused her to slap a friend. The only one. "If you keep those thoughts alive how long do you think you will last?"_

_"Why would you care?," responded Mira, still startled but in a sad and bitter tone._

_Naevia looked at her, wishing she understood. But the woman still carried freedom under her skin, close to the surface. She sighed inside. "I care."_

_Mira snorted in disgust and looked away. "You only care because I am the one who trades words with you, Domina's little pet. No other slave does. I have noticed."_

_Those words reminded Naevia of who Mira was. A slave who had been free once. Who knew how that felt. Who would not welcome anything based on false words, but true ones. Mira never evaded truth, and when she thought it was not fair, she fought. Naevia did not understand it, yet, somehow, respected it._

_"You speak the truth."_

_"Don't you wish for an honest friendship where love and care matter?"_

_"I would not know such things. My mother died when I was too young. The memories of that what you speak of with fire in your eyes are distant in my mind."_

_"You slapped me."_

_Naevia looked down. "Apologies."_

_"Do not." When Naevia looked back in surprise, her eyes met a smile. "It is the first thing you ever do without thought. Somewhere inside, you really care."_

_"To keep you alive only for my own benefit?"_

_"If that is all you can get for now, embrace it. Maybe some day you will be able to feel something more." She smiled. Inside, Mira sought some gentle care too, and whether she was blind to it, Naevia was full of life. "Maybe I will learn to maintain my lips sealed."_

_It was rare to listen a chuckle among slaves._

_Naevia went to her sleeping space and grabbed a piece of cloth, and a small bowl of water returning to Mira. Silently, she started to clean the wound. "It might swell, but you must keep it clean, Mira."_

_Mira let the slave do. Something inside softened. "Varinia."_

_Naevia looked in question._

_"That is my real name. Varinia." Naevia remained silent, cleaning the wound, providing calm._

_"Some day, maybe, I will listen to it on the lips of another."_

_Naevia uttered no word, concentrating on the open sore while she hoped that the little corner of her insides stirred by Mira's words would silence._

_She was a slave, a lonely figure in a strange world, that one day would fade, never to be remembered._

_**OOO**_

Dominus had not let him grab means to carry Crixus to the medicus. Dominus had said nothing. He had simply turned away from the tortured man.

Oenomaus could only hope his swift and skilled hands, allowing a clean cut, would ensure Crixus' wound would not rot if he had it cleaned and closed quickly. The Gaul was unconscious, feeling no pain. Silently, hoping for Dominus to let him leave with the man, he took the limp body from the arms and dragged it out of the house, walking gravely towards the room in which he could get him treated.

Oenomaus listened to the faint sound of swords, spears and shields, of men fighting and training for glory. As Crixus had once done. As Crixus would never do again. Maybe there was no glory, if the man who most deserved it within those walls had been viciously deprived from it. At his own hand and under his Dominus' orders.

He listened to the gladiators, knowing they would stop the minute he stepped into the sand carrying the bleeding champion –he still was the champion to many of them.

He saw the concern, the painful surprise, the astonishment in their faces. What he did not expect was that the only man daring to approach and helping him to carry Crixus to the medicus was Spartacus.

Oenomaus let the Thracian do, and soon they were placing Crixus on the oblong wooden surface.

Conveniently, the medicus was not there.

"Where is he?"

Spartacus' face kept a serious and tensed façade, understanding. "I saw him walk towards the villa escorted by guards not too long ago."

The reason behind Batiatus' silence was revealed. He had not granted Crixus permission to live. The Gaul would have to fight for it. The honor and respect Oenomaus felt for Batiatus was quickly disappearing, like grains of sand held on a hand.

"What happened?"

"Batiatus ordered him castrated."

"Will he live?"

"I made the cut as clean as I could," said Oenomaus, starting to seek for the medicus' tools with his eyes. "He might." For a moment, his eyes traveled towards the villa. "If he gets treatment."

"For what offense would he get such punishment?"

"For none but to obey."

"Why not killing him?"

Oenomaus found an iron.

"Crixus values his manhood and the power that comes with it, over his enemies in the sand, and on women within bed."

Spartacus shook his head in silence. Not women. Only one. Like him.

"Dominus took that away from him. He wants Crixus to know he will never wield a sword nor have a woman. He wants him to live with the loss."

"A servant?"

"Inside the villa."

"He still has a woman, Doctore."

The black man looked at the Thracian.

"In his heart. No one can rip her from there. And you say he was but following commands."

"As was I." He didn't feel proud. He just accepted it as a fact.

"But you know it is unfair."

"What I know or think, slave," he said reminding Spartacus once again of their condition, "is only to be kept inside this vessel. You should understand the meaning of unfair and unfortunate things. And how to overcome them. They took your wife from you and you-"

"Not they," he severely cut him. "Batiatus." The name burned in his tongue. "Sura's death was ordered by him, Doctore. He commanded her dead."

The ultimate revelation to end with all remaining trust. To be punched with the truth all of them wanted to ignore, even when they spoke it. They were all slaves. All of them. Including him.

One last look at the domus, in which he knew the medicus would be retained for some time before he was permitted to come. Oenomaus made a decision.

Crixus would not die this day.

"Spartacus."

He felt the Thracian's eyes upon him.

"Have Agron bring water and start a fire."

Oenomaus' eyes soon found the straps and chains. He would soon need them.

_**OOO**_

Her feet got wet by the water spilled, as Lucretia stood up, erasing all trace of pain and concealing her knowledge from Naevia, yet her eyes set upon her with vicious anger, in advantage of the knowledge that her slave dared not to look at her in the eye.

Lucretia knew her slaves feared her, but inside she had always liked the way Naevia treated her. It had seemed more respect than fear, and Lucretia praised herself as responsible for that affection. Having the bond of trust broken ignited her beyond reason. But her heart led her to other matters. The scream. Crixus'.

Once she gained balance, Lucretia started walking as steadily as she could, with effort but on her own. She did not care anymore for Ilithyia, silent smiling figure remaining behind, enjoying every moment and pondering to which unimaginable punishment the lanista had placed the Gaul through. And what would be of the slave girl, now that the truth was out, revealed by the servant herself.

A servant who stood still, frozen, probably, for the first time in her life, failing to follow her Domina's steps.

As soon as Lucretia approached the room Quintus used for business, she saw the trail of blood and contained her breath. The trail entered the chamber.

She saw her husband sitting, serious, deep in thought. And another figure. The medicus.

"Quintus," she whispered.

Seeing her, Batiatus commanded the medicus out with a gesture and looked back at her.

When she saw the bloodied flesh on the floor, the two rounded bloodstained...things, her hand sought for a column to support herself.

"Crixus will not touch your body again, nor will he desire it. Neither will you seek it."

"Quintus, I-"

"I understand. Somehow I do." Batiatus stood up and walked towards his wife, still leaning heavily on the column, horrified at the vision on the floor.

"Quintus, you—" He placed a finger on his mouth.

"I am but a fool, Lucretia. A fool in love. I have tortured myself for years, seeing how much you craved for a child. So, seeing it not be done, I can understand you would look seed in another." His words seemed studied, planned.

"It was not just my fulfillment, Quintus. It was for us." He needed to know that.

"And for that I will always be grateful, Lucretia. You have shown me the lengths you would go to for us. How can I not love you? How can I not understand?"

She attempted a smile, hope still not daring to appear.

And soon crushed.

"Yet not behind my back, Lucretia. And not with a slave. Fuck the Gods if I am to recognize the spawn of a slave as mine!"

Lucretia's hopes crumbled and fell.

"I saw your eyes, Lucretia. They shone by the knowledge of life growing inside of you. I want that for you. For us. I want the joy."

"Quintus," she tried one last time, "the joy," she took his hands, hoping. Placed them on her belly. "It is already here."

The touch remained an instant, and by the brusque movement, she knew that would be the only caring touch she would ever feel from his husband on this child.

His tone was dry and serious.

"I have made arrangements. You will be provided the necessary commodities and constant care in a private set of the villa. I will find proper excuse from your confinement from social life. Ask for as many slaves as you find fit, I will have the midwife and medicus' presence a constant."

"Quintus..."

She begged with her voice, and pleaded with her eyes.

"The child will be exposed as soon as it is born, and no one will speak of it again."

Batiatus left the room.

A lonely tear traveled down the face of a forlorn figure. It reached the end of the chin and fell to the void.

Onto a hand set on a belly.

_**OOOOO**_


	7. Part VII Live

**Title**: A Distant Memory

**Chapter warnings**: it falls within "_**Spartacus: Blood and Sand**_" standards. Sex, language, and violence. Nothing which has not seen within the show: bear that in mind, you might read unpleasant things.

**Spoilers**: With season 1 over, not really spoilers, but there's mention of events from several episodes. This is a very canon fic.

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

_**OOOOO**_

_**Part VII. Live**_

_**OOOOO**_

_Lucretia looked down, as she had for many days now, towards the impluvium. Empty. _

_She let out a tired sigh as her eyes closed in prayer. _

_The unforgiving heavens were punishing Capua and no one knew why. All temples were being filled with offerings and sacrifices made in honour of Jupiter and Ceres. Crops would be lost. And yet it would not rain. _

_She could not wash herself properly._

_In such conditions, only the personal servants, those for whom some water was saved in order to keep their filthy skins from stench, were allowed inside the domus. _

_Lucretia loathed that smell._

_There was only one scent she did not evade, but received with rapture: Crixus'. He would always clean himself when she summoned him, but she could still smell his distinctive scent, of sand and sweat. It aroused her. She would keep it in her nostrils while he entered her. She would preserve it in her hands and arms, and thighs once he left, for as long as she could until she took her bath before Quintus arrived._

_It was not raining._

_She could not wash herself properly._

_And her husband would not spend coin in water._

_Suddenly, the subject of her last thoughts came from the gates, muttering deep in concentration. _

_Lucretia sighed inwardly. She hated to see her husband displeased, and today, that meant that the day at the market had not brought any good news. She eyed him in sympathy, yet he would not change his severe expression when he met those blue eyes._

_"Jupiter, Lucretia," he proclaimed at no one but her and the walls enveloping them. "He is the one fucking with us right now."_

_"Quintus!" The name was hissed, followed by an apprehensive look to the heavens before Lucretia walked towards her husband, meeting his hands with hers the moment they made contact in an attempt to calm him down._

_Her gentle rub with the thumbs on his hands usually had a soothing effect, calming Quintus' temperament, yet the cause of his distress this time seemed far beyond her touch's reach. He let her get close, attempting an embrace, yet his eyes were lost in his misfortune, away from her. Finally, he spoke._

_"Fucking Solonius bought the batch again before my very eyes, Lucretia, I barely got the girl you asked for the kitchen," he protested in a tired tone._

_Ever the insistent supportive wife, relentless whenever it came to unload as much burden as she could carry for him, Lucretia used her hand to direct his chin towards her, making sure he would look at her and see the smile and that reassurance coloured her voice._

_"One is all we need. And you saved coin."_

_Batiatus snorted against his will and separated from her, walking a few steps past Lucretia before he released her hand. "Coin kept in purse only because I managed to evade Ovidius."_

_He stood there, not ready to face the woman who, behind him, had just looked down, again. "We are still in debt."_

_A state of the obvious._

_"And growing, Lucretia. Fucking growing." The disbelief was evident in his voice, and as much as he hated worrying Lucretia, he could not avoid the facts. But not facing her._

_He should have known better._

_Batiatus__ could not help the sigh of relieve shifting his shoulders when he felt the warm and firm hands on them._

_"You could have paid some of the debts with the coin saved today, Quintus."_

_It was not a reproach. _

_"We need grain, Lucretia. And slaves. The ludus feeds us, and it claims gladiators."_

_"We have the champion of Capua."_

_"Yet if he falls we will have none to replace him. Not even barca or Gnaeus."_

_Finally he took the courage to turn, yet still not to look at her. "Ashur spoke to me about a Roman who wishes to step inside the arena."_

_Two perplexed eyes met the revelation. "A Roman?"_

_A nod. __"Goes by the name of Varro, has some debts to pay. Seems to think he can if he becomes a gladiator."_

_Lucretia pondered the situation for brief moments and gave her judgement. "Do not purchase him, Quintus. He will probably be a young man blinded by glory."_

_"He has __wife and child. I do not think of him as a fool. A man risking that much must have value. And a Roman, no less, Lucretia. Not a Gaul, not a Carthaginian. A true Roman amongst the Gods of the arena." The shadows dissipated from his eyes. "Owned by Batiatus." And finally he looked at her. Now he could face her. Now he had something to offer. _

_Still, Lucretia was not easily fooled, and could always read behind his eyes. The look was one of love, and sympathy, and a promise to be by his side, as she had always been. "You are concerned." _

_"We are flooded with debts, Lucretia, only to be paid in coin we do not have," he admitted._

_She came closer. "We will have it."_

_The voice was honest, and did not waver. It curved the corner of his lips._

_"You never stop having faith."_

_Her eyebrows relaxed, so did her eyelids and her smile, drawing that expression he had learned to love so deeply. "One of us must remain loyal to the Gods. And my husband does not favour that position."_

"_Apologies__. I just—" _

_Her index finger silenced his mouth, never parting her eyes from him. "Shhhh. I know. I know." _

_"This...situation. It irks me, Lucretia."_

_"You must keep your strength though, Quintus. If only on the surface. Show no weakness."_

_"No weakness." It sounded so easy coming from her lips. Then, the question came out honest, surprising both of them. "How can such a woman stand by a man like me?"_

_"How can you even doubt that?," she softly asked, supporting her words with her forehead touching his. _

_"You do not deserve this."_

_"You speak of me as if I were above you."_

_He tried to answer with a silent look. _

_"I am but a reflection of my husband, standing sheltered under his protective shadow."_

_"Do not speak like that. You shine on your own, Lucretia. You bear no weaknesses for me."_

_"But I have," she corrected him. "I do have a weakness," she said, although still with a smile. "One which I cannot hide."_

_"And what would that be?"_

_"My husband."_

_**OOO**_

Not one of them remembered a quieter day inside the ludus. A horrid tense silence knowing what was happening inside the medicus' area.

Crixus was dying. In silence, far from the roar of the crowd he thrived for.

The wood of the training swords colliding filled the air, but it would not beat the silence.

_**OO**_

_You must live. You cannot die a humiliating death_.

Oenomaus placed the iron on the fire. He had seen it done many times on gashes made by weapons in the arena. He knew, from watching the medicus many times, that heating the flesh made bleedings stop. It would also help prevent it from rotting. And it was the technique always used in amputations. He did not know if it would work, yet it was the only possibility he could give his friend.

Death would be more merciful, but something inside, that Oenomaus still could not comprehend, prevented him from releasing Crixus into death's arms. Some force stopped him, told him that his conscience would be mistaken if he let him die.

With the side of his eyes he could see Spartacus carefully fastening the straps over the unconscious gladiator's chest, arms and legs, the latter separated as he then skilfully cleaned the sand and dust around the wound. Acting as if there was nothing else but him and Crixus.

Oenomaus wondered for an instant what purpose moved Spartacus to act in such diligence, and what thoughts steered his mind and actions.

_**OO**_

_You must live. I need you to live._

Crixus was the way. He could not die. He was the path to reach the gladiators. Together they could do it, as much as he disliked the idea. He had been trying. Like prior in the morning. And he knew he had made a step forward. Now all his plans stumbled on the agonizing Gaul.

No. Spartacus refused to believe, to give up.

Crixus would live.

He would not see another die to the caprice of a Roman.

He was only ashamed it was dead people who had opened his clouded eyes to reason and truth. Not a single of their passings would be in vain. That he had promised himself the night of Varro's death, not understanding the full meaning of his own words until later: no more deaths like animals. No more living under the chains of Rome.

_**OOO**_

_Mira would not forget that night, and still she could not dwell on it. Tomorrow would be a new day and she could not look back on this night again. But what she had seen. What she had learned._

_His friend...No. His brother. __Dead. Slain by his own hand. _

_She slowly walked across the sand, ordering her thoughts, trying to erase the filth flooding her body. Hoping against hope. She could not look back, for she would not survive. But she had to let him know, she had to._

_And then what?_

_Varro, his brother, had died. The man Spartacus had placed Mira's own welfare beneath in order to find the wife was no more. How would he be, she could not know. She had seen all kinds of injustices played on slaves, but this vicious act...taken by a boy, only proclaimed man through Roman tradition but a few hours before..._

_The boy who later had demanded the same woman who his hero favoured._

_Mira stopped in the middle and breathed some air. She felt dirty, yet she had no right to share that with him. Not tonight. Or perhaps not ever, for he had no eyes for her. And yet she felt compelled to share the truth with him. Still she felt her spirits rising whenever she was ordered to please the champion's demands._

_Tonight she had offered herself, suggesting Dominus that the champion might need relief. And so she had found herself walking towards his chamber, thinking of the night's events. Not on Varro's death, but of finding herself in a private chamber, where she was to await. Startled to see the boy, approaching her, walking as an important Roman, beneath whom she stood. And beneath he had forced her to lay. _

_While he clumsily thrust himself inside, when she felt the soft skin of his beardless face, Mira had to struggle against the urge to empty the contents of her stomach, and found herself horrified, thinking that if a boy could commit such brutality, what would he do when he was a grown man._

_And as he spilled his essence he told her that she was not the first, and that he only wanted her to feel the champion by placing his cock where Spartacus' had been._

_Her sudden thoughts of rage at the knowledge of being raped in the name of Spartacus soon gave way to a more horrible revelation. His first. The name fell from his tongue. The Roman who despised Spartacus. Suddenly the smiles and looks exchanged between the woman and the boy, of which Mira had caught sight of when willing her eyes not to look at the scene before them, made sense._

_So determined to share the truth with Spartacus she had reached the wooden door. And there all thoughts of revelation had died in her throat._

_Words would not be spoken that night. Not from her. Suddenly she had found her hand reaching his head, her knees meeting the floor and a lost, tear-stained man –not a slave, a man– looking helplessly at her, words dying on both._

_She had hugged him as hard as her body allowed, for as long as he had needed. Held him while he silently wept._

_Hours would pass before any would speak. And it had been him. His voice finding the strength again._

_No more deaths in vain._

_He did not promise. He swore._

_Mira believed him, and at that moment, she had known._

_She would be by his side. She would help him._

_Whatever the cost to her life, or to her heart._

_**OOO**_

Exposed. Never to be mentioned again.

Her eyes had run dry in the privacy of her pain.

The child was not hers. It was but a shy evidence of life, and she had neglected herself the joy of feeling it but...but she could.

How could she not?

It was inside. Growing. And it had made its presence known. Even if through pain. It had claimed its life.

And it ached to the core, the knowledge of giving her body to the sole purpose of creating, shaping, sheltering a life only to have it taken away. The thought itself was an excruciating agony...what would be the actual feeling? The process?

A part of her was furious. Quintus' lie had stabbed her deep, even if she understood. Damned her, for she understood and found no reason to fight against that. But he knew her, he was familiar with her desires, they had talked about having a child, and still he would not reveal his condition to her, neither encourage her to find seed. And not approving the fact that she had done it for herself, that she had sought to secure their future...

And still she could understand. A slave. Chosen by her. Not sharing the possibility that one day had suddenly set place inside her mind, when she had seen that powerful man giving them glory and honouring her with his victories, a gesture of loyalty to his Dominus that she had seen as something else.

And it had not.

A part of her was ashamed. For she had believed that the Gaul felt something for her, but there had not been conquest because he had just been pleasing the demands of his Domina. And she had placed him in the arms of another woman. The realization that he was not hers had been both infuriating and shameful. How could she feel anything for a slave? She refused to. Yet her whole body had cringed when he cried in pain, and the thought of the life Quintus had fated for Crixus haunted her. Whatever love she would allow herself to feel for this child, and the suffering that would soon follow, had been brought by his seed. A seed she had welcomed herself. It had been her choice, now she had all the consequences before her to be faced.

And so she did.

And a choice was made.

She then spent a short moment on Naevia's treason.

The decision was easy.

For the child too.

A part of her felt hatred, shaped in the form of a woman who had finally peeled all her layers. Ilithyia manipulated words with uncanny skills, yet her eyes betrayed her. Her attentive sight over her on Numerius' birthday, always ready to lend a hand in order to keep the terrible crime concealed, had exposed a very revealing exchange; when all eyes had set upon Spartacus and Varro. Ilithyia's delight over the Thracian's anguish, for his friendship with the Roman gladiator was well known inside the ludus, was no surprise. But when she had parted her sight from the gladiators, Lucretia had been intrigued, shocked to see that the lascivious smile was directed towards the boy Numerius.

Inducing him into the remaining pleasures the champion of Capua was given had been easy, as had it also been concealing his little act talking with Calavius' wife while the senator spoke with Solonius –as much as it hurt her to see. Later, Mira had confirmed her suspicions about Ilithyia's hands on the gladiator's death.

And it had been her, Ilithyia, who had pointed Quintus into the right direction, her who had twisted and rotted everything around her. She had to control her. No. She had to crush her. Forget her mixed feelings.

And she knew just how. Legatus Glaber would know what kind of woman he had wed.

The incoming footsteps took her away from her thoughts. Breathing deeply, she ordered her thoughts and feelings. She questioned herself for many things. For her feelings towards Crixus and Ilithyia, and for the lengths her love for Quintus she was going to go.

Her hands refused to protect the child anymore.

_**OOO**_

Lucretia seemed deep in thought when Batiatus entered the room, making him stop at the entrance, eyes fixed on her. The time spent alone since he last spoke to his wife had been a turmoil of contradictions. Of despair, self-assurance, pain, doubt and clarity.

Batiatus found himself looking at her in concern, disquiet he would bury straightaway, yet not sensing relief through the change, another confirmation of his need to speak. Regret loomed and lurked, and after all the lies, he had found he could not hurt Lucretia any further.

A part of him told him that he had done the right thing. That was out of the question, and even her had reasoned he had been right to condemn her choice. He wanted this with her, but not like that. Not without his approval.

Yet his mind and heart would betray him in his solitude after he had revealed his decision to Lucretia. His mind had painfully reminded him that neither was young anymore, and there was no guarantee she could conceive again.

He had cursed the Gods for placing him in that situation, forcing him to choose. Taking all the risks. The child was not his. But none would be. It was something he could not fight against, something he had accepted yet never had the courage to tell her. Fear of hurting. Fear of not having what he loved most in his life. And losing that would have been. Simply not acceptable.

Could he come to love a child that was not his? Yes. As a matter of fact he could. Because it would come from Lucretia. It was a part of her too. But the thought of the father being Crixus, or any slave from his house...It had been unbearable, a shame he had found almost impossible to face, brought by his very wife. His hand still burned from the blow, and still she had forgiven his violent act.

Fuck the Gods. How he wished he could do that. Fuck them and never depend on them. Ever. He had found himself hopeless before two different paths, not knowing which one would be the right choice. Then, a slim possibility had opened before him. She had said it: no one had to know. Maybe he could do this, maybe he did not have to put Lucretia to the ordeal of seclusion. To warm up to the idea of making that child his, a concept which seemed so distant and unreachable now, yet she could make happen. Of shutting all the fucking Roman mouths with poisoned words on their barren marriage. Of being privileged witness of the radiance Lucretia would undoubtedly emanate, making her the source of envy of all the women in Capua. Taking her into another kind of beauty only reserved to women and to their husbands' eyes. Perhaps, if he sold Crixus, he-

"You were right."

His thoughts vanished under her voice, soft but steady. "Right?"

She nodded and looked down. "I brought shame upon us."

Together with the unexpected words, a prior thought returned. She could make it happen, but he could not do it on his own.

"Lucretia, I-"

She looked up, and in her eyes he did not see pain anymore, but determination. Calm. Reassurance. "We will have a child, Quintus."

He walked the distance separating him from his wife, trying to digest the true meaning behind those words, letting her will rearrange his thoughts, bringing back first hopes.

"I wish you could be the father," she confessed, "but I understand the pain I have caused you with my insolence."

"Insolence? Lucretia-"

She spoke, illuminating with a smile her beautiful face in a way only she could do. "Let us choose a father. Together."

_Together_. One word and she brought his hope back.

"Let us make a child as ours as it can be. I was wrong to choose Crixus, Quintus."

Strangely, he could only smile at that remark. She had chosen the best they had before Spartacus, and...

Spartacus.

Strong. And with a mind with purpose, unlike the brute Gaul. And he would not resist, for what bigger honour could he attain than watching a son being born into the glory of Rome before he perished in the sand crowned as a legend among men?

Batiatus quickly warmed up to the idea. "Perhaps we should aim higher this time."

"Tomorrow I will begin preparations for retirement, and time will pass quick, and we will never speak of this again."

"Only looking towards the future."

His joy overcame him and he kissed Lucretia with might, realizing how much had he missed her.

"There is only one concern," she said.

"What? What is it?," he asked with a hint of nervousness.

"Crixus. His presence would be a constant reminder of the dishonour I brought upon us."

The solution came simple. "We will sell him."

She denied it with her head. "The memory would still linger in my head, Quintus." A moment passed. "Have him crucified." Her eyes pleaded.

With a nod, he sealed Crixus' fate for the second time in a day.

_**OOO**_

"Good Batiatus."

Leaving Lucretia resting and on his way to find the guards he needed, Batiatus found the unwanted presence of Ilithyia approaching with a concerned expression. "Ilithyia."

"I was tending to your wife when we heard this horrid scream, she—"

"Clear your mind of concern. A slave needed discipline. Nothing more."

Ilithyia eye the blood trail "Right." She looked back at him smiling. "Of course."

"Are you leaving?" It was more a plea than a question, yet he disguised it properly.

"Unfortunately. My husband is expected in Rome in three days."

The only relief of having the woman under their roof for so long was the control they had gained over her unexpectedly after Licinia's murder. Now he took certain liberties otherwise improbable to part his lips. "A good time to speak of patronage, then."

"My good Batiatus," she said coming closer to him and never letting the slight smile leave her lips, neither her eyes on him. "I intend to make this house have precisely what it deserves, bear no doubt," she spoke with demolishing eagerness.

"Words received with gratitude."

"My honesty will not deceive you, be sure" she sentenced. "Still, I would like to share my goodbyes with your wife, if possible. She left her chambers in a hurry, concerned about the...discipline matter you took care of."

Batiatus stiffened slightly. "Of course. Yet make it short, she needs rest."

Ilithyia nodded. "Nothing is more important than that life sprouting inside your wife." She left walking past the lanista, missing the effect those last words had had on him and entered the room where she found Lucretia sitting. Unexpectedly, the confidence moving her feet wavered. Lucretia looked different.

She was a still form, sitting. Straight, not a crawling desperate soul anymore. And behind that, some determination that made those blue eyes even more piercing than they usually were.

As she approached her, Ilithyia knew she would never meet a woman like her. Ever again.

She found herself speaking with a gentle tone. She had not planned it to. "Your thoughts haunt your features."

Lucretia raised her head towards the woman. Not startled. Calmed. "They have finally found their ground. They hurt no more, worry not."

"I have come to say goodbye. You left so suddenly..."

"Apologies for that."

Ilithyia sat by her side, like she had done so many times before, and touched her face. "You seem better."

"Like I said, I am calm."

Ilithyia did not expect the smile either. "That is good." She touched Lucretia's belly one last time. "For the child."

The soft yet firm hold taking her hand away matched the stillness of Lucretia's eyes, the absence of emotion in her face.

"The child might not live."

Ilithyia's eyes opened wide. Lucretia's did not.

The woman was clawing her way underneath all the rubble. And a part of Ilithyia wished for it to be real. Ashamed to think of it, she would miss the magnificent woman she had felt –still felt– so attracted to. The same woman she had fought to crush. The woman whose soul she had subdued to pain yet would still fight.

Lucretia's coldness hurt her.

She had to leave. Before it was too late for her.

Yet one thing she needed. A one last parting kiss. That she intended not either of them forget in a long time.

Ilithyia came closer, as she usually did, but instead of a cheerful short kiss seeking the reaction of Lucretia with her open eyes, she brought the rejected hand to her face and with a gentle movement, brought Lucretia's face close to her until her nose touched her, and their lips brushed against each other. Feeling the warmth of Lucretia's breathing, she closed her eyes and kissed her. For an instant. But softly. Then again. Longer.

There was no rejection now. Lucretia did not move. Ilithyia's tongue finally ventured its way through the woman's lips, forcing them open and letting her explore new territory.

Then she stopped. The kiss had been well received, yet not corresponded.

The same game. Again and again. Tempting, then betraying, then rejecting, then accepting. Twisting, controlling, subjecting. That was what they were bound to. Nothing more. Lucretia had never doubted it, despite punctual moments of uncertainty she may had harboured. It was time Ilithyia accepted it, and that kiss had been Lucretia's way of stating it.

Silently, the younger woman nodded. She gained no reaction. "In another time we would have been such friends."

"Perhaps when you and I stand on even ground."

The patronage. That was their concern. Ilithyia wondered if her sudden coldness had settled due to the rearrangement of priorities inside her. _The baby might not live_. Her words had not been spoken lightly.

Neither was the last sentence she shared with her before leaving.

"Like I said to your husband, rest assured, my dear Lucretia, that the house of Batiatus will see its owners gain the destine they do deserve."

_**OOO**_

She had been frozen. By fear. By pain. By a sheer will of not rushing towards the aching cry echoing in her ears, pounding fiercely against her insides.

She had feared Domina, who instead had merely walked past her.

She had not listened to the other woman speaking words, she had not seen her leaving the room, she had not noticed the glee in her eyes darting at her.

Naevia had just remained there, quiet. Still. Frozen. Until silence had made itself present at last,, letting her regain clarity, moving her feet.

Step. Step. Walking yet not knowing where to, or why. Another step.

To be standing still again. Blood. A trail, heading for the gladiators. Staining the floor. Letting all her emotions flow through her face, her tearing eyes, reaching her throat, about to scream.

A hand on her mouth and a shove, Naevia suddenly saw herself pushed through a column, meeting too very open brown eyes fixed on hers. Sternly shaking her head, and not releasing the hand on her mouth until she was sure Naevia would not scream.

Mira only wished she could calm the breathing on her scared friend.

"Crixus, he-"

"I know. I heard. You must calm yourself, Naevia."

"He's-"

"He is not your concern now."

A shared look and everything was understood.

Prudence and discretion, she had learned from her mother. She had perfected it under Domina's service. Showing her emotions through the slightest of unspoken gestures had been Mira's most valuable lesson. It had built their friendship stronger. And it had given her and Crixus a chance to build their bond.

Now she was aching through it, but that look coming from a very well known –and loved– freckled pale young stern face had spoken with blinding clarity.

_Worry not. I will go myself. Show no emotion to them. It will be all right. I promise. _

Naevia nodded, and forced herself to calm her breathing as Mira took her hand off her mouth and released her from the grip pinning her against the column.

Yet the fear was there.

"I think Domina knows," she whispered.

"That you cannot know, Naevia. Hide not, you will only make it worse. You should be with her."

"She was...I do not know where-"

"Naevia!"

The voice startled them, both internally relieved that Dominus had not seen them an instant before, evidencing a very private and revealing moment between the two slaves. They had made it a point not to show emotions before them. Mira had used Naevia's initial reticence towards friendship in their advantage, and saw it as a way of protection. They could not hurt any of them through the other, because to their eyes, they did not mean anything.

They both turned and bowed their heads, speaking in unison. "Dominus."

"Go tend your Domina."

Naevia bowed her head deeper and walked past him in a quick pace. Mira dared to look at him when his eyes parted from her. He looked tired. No. Sad. The unexpected sentiment drifted her away from her usual focus, being jerked back by his stare on her.

"What are you looking at, slave?"

"Apologies Dominus," she promptly said, and went back to her slave position.

"I have had enough slavery treason for one day. Do not try my patience."

"It will not happen again, Dominus."

She turned and walked away.

"Wait."

Mira stopped still.

"Before you go back to your duties: tell the guards at the ludus to prepare the wood and nails for tonight."

_**OOO**_

She could not stay, as much as she wanted to. Seeing how the ludus crumbled. How it was rotting from the inside, knowing she had planted the poisoned seed.

Her thoughts travelled to Lucretia. Still conflicting. She feared they would be so for a long time before she could bury them in her memory. Yet she would be the only lingering thought, and not strong enough to stop her.

Ilithyia stopped at a safe distance and waited, The slave arrived at the appointed moment, escorted by the guards she had sent.

He was dangerous. Had been the most valuable ally, but there was something in his eyes. She needed to be sure.

"Domina."

He would call 'Domina' a snake if that served his purpose, Ilithyia mused with vivid clarity. "You have served me well, slave," she said giving him a purse heavy with coin which the slave took with open hands.

"I strive not to disappoint," he said bowing his head with much care.

A studied gesture, she knew. She was a master of those herself. As with words. And conceal.

"This is but the first reward," she added, attracting the eyes of the slave towards hers, making her smile as seeing how he had to control himself not to look at her, eager on hearing her words.

Glaber liked hunting. He would go for long moments telling her how he approached the game. Circling it. Sometimes baiting before deciding.

"I would have words with my husband about your value as a slave."

Taking it close before making a decision: how would the hunter show his power: killing a formidable prey, or showing his forgiveness by letting it live. Letting the game speak for itself and observing, once the bait was there.

"My gratitude would know no bounds."

Deserving to live or to die. There lied the power for her husband. Killing or not. Taming or letting the animal free.

"Still. You betrayed your Dominus."

A spark of anger betrayed the slave himself.

Ilithyia was close to making her decision. He only had to push himself.

And so he did.

"Forgive my boldness, Domina. The secret of your..." he paused to rephrase. "Of the unfortunate death of Licinia lies dormant in my mind."

So he knew, as she suspected. Good Solonius had been right when warning her against Batiatus' right hand. The fool.

"Never to be awaken. My lips are and will be sealed. I venture those words only to prove my loyalty, Domina."

And the decision was made.

"You are a loyal slave. Go back to the villa. You will hear from me shortly."

"Domina."

He bowed with gratitude and left. On her way back to the wheeled transport she called one of her guards. "You."

The guard approached.

"The slave you saw me speaking with. Stay behind. He plans against my husband." The hand of the guard went to his sword. "Halt. Not now. He frequents the market. Do it there. And make sure no one knows who did it."

"Yes, Domina."

A beast that cannot be tamed must be killed.

_**OOO**_

"He has a chance."

Spartacus eyed Doctore. They had closed the wound, and now their focus laid in keeping it clean. Accustomed to heavy steps caused by gladiators, they did not hear the incoming hurried pace of Mira until she was well inside the room.

They turned at the slave gasping.

Mira needed a moment to react. She eyed Spartacus. "He is to be crucified. Tonight. Dominus sent me to call the guards."

"Crucified?," Spartacus asked. Ignoring Mira's nod, he turned to look at Doctore, now wearing a pensive look. "I do not understand then. You said—"

"And I was right. He would not kill him."

"Then-"

"Domina. She is the one person that can steer Batiatus to change a decision."

This time the question escaped from Mira's lips. "It was her who caused all this unleashing Dominus' rage, why would she want his death?"

Oenomaus pondered. He almost did not believe what he was going to say, but he had lived long enough inside the ludus, and had gained some understanding of the woman married to Dominus, sometimes surprising himself at the attention Dominus gave her, seeing as he had, many other Roman couples. Almost as an equal. "Because she cares."

"Is a dead man more valuable? Is that death a gesture of mercy?" Spartacus' voice was filled with contained rage.

Oenomaus saw the faces of two dead people speaking through his strained voice. Whether the Thracian was lost or, quite the contrary, had found himself, he did not know. Either way he was a dangerous man, not to be taken lightly. And, as he had learned recently, to be respected.

"She knows Crixus would rather die than live the fate Dominus has prepared for him. Perhaps we should be grateful."

"No. He must live."

"I would see to it. But I trust no Gods can make such a miracle happen."

"Gods do not-" He halted, the words slamming into his face. They did speak. They spoke to Sura. Yet they only mislead him. The purpose he had now. That was what came first. And it had not been spoken to him by the Gods. But by Varro. And Sura. And...

He eyed the woman standing beside them. And her, opening his eyes even wider. He had been but a blinded fool for too long. And that aggravated woman advising him against killing Batiatus because he would not only carry the man's death with him, but send all of them to Tartarus had brought him clairvoyance reminding him of Sura's words: he was destined to do great and unfortunate things. Killing all the slaves, people like him, was not it. He would kill, and he would surely die. Some day. But freedom. The unthinkable. That was it. That was the great thing.

He eyed Mira.

"He will live," he said with a softened voice. And as he spoke, he hoped the slave knew that behind those words was a thank you that maybe, some day, he would be able to speak aloud knowing he would not stain Sura's memory nor hurt the feelings of a woman who openly loved him knowing the sentiment was not returned.

_**OOO**_

Lucretia had gone back to her room, her body demanding a rest she was continuously neglecting. The usual silent presence challenged the calm recently acquired over the pain.

Looking at the candle providing the room with a dim light, a treacherous memory of the priestess rite shot through her. Lucretia killed the memory. Listlessly, she extinguished the flame, leaving her in darkness sought.

"Naevia, wait outside."

"Yes, Domina."

She didn't take notice of the presence abandoning the room, yet heard the familiar steps approaching. Stopping by the entrance. Hesitating. Finally coming in, followed by a gentle touch on her shoulder, welcomed by her hand. And a kiss on her forehead.

"I did not want to wake you up," he whispered.

"I was awake." She did not see his face in the dark, but noticed the stiffness caused by concern.

"Are you feeling unwell? Should I call for-"

"No. I feel fine, Quintus. Just..."

He held her hand and kissed it.

"Lie here with me, Quintus?"

She feared another reject, but this time she was not asking for a father. She was asking for her husband. And he seemed to understand, for he, slowly and carefully, went to the other side so he could lie behind her, letting Lucretia rest against his side, drawing his arm over her and holding her hands.

He said three words, and he hoped she would understand. "I love you." _I am sorry I lied. I wish it could have been different. I will make things happen._ He received a squeeze in return.

"I love you too."

_**OOO**_

Crucified. He was to be crucified. Those were the news greeting his return to consciousness: death. Despite the pain, his mind remained clear. "It is better that way."

"It is not, and you know it."

Crixus' eyes focused on the ceiling. It hurt too much to turn his head. To move a single muscle. "The Thracian still speaks like a fool." Yet his stubbornness brought him back to Naevia. And his desire to die before living the fate Dominus had sealed for him was threatened against his own will. Then he heard a voice of reason. The only voice he respected among the men who he could call equal.

"The sentence has been pronounced, our only choice is to make it come quickly and painless."

Crixus listened. They seemed to speak as if he was not there.

"If we are united—"

Crixus could hear the abrupt stop in the Thracian's discourse as caused by Doctore's arm, most probably menacing Spartacus not to speak.

"You speak with madness."

"I have not been so clear-minded in my whole life."

"You repeatedly forget you are a slave."

"As you do forget you were once a free man."

Silence filled the room.

Crixus thought that Naevia had never known freedom. And then he though of a death without her as the worst form of slavery. And then thought of a chance of a life, or a resemblance of it, yet with her. Freedom did not make sense if she was not there.

"He must live."

Would loving her without being able to show her like he had before be better than an eternity without her? He felt he was doomed to Tartarus, for the Roman Gods had not favoured him yet lived in their land. But he could not imagine a gentle and pure soul like Naevia sharing his fate in the afterlife.

"He will not survive it. The wound will reopen and life will bleed out of him."

Spartacus ignored the memory. "Then we will close it taut."

The thought of Naevia suffering was worse than the pain he was feeling.

"If we do, his agony will prolong for hours."

He needed to see her one more time. He could not...

"Hours are what we need."

Crixus found his voice again. "Spartacus..."

Spartacus and Oenomaus silenced their discussion and the Thracian approached Crixus, who would still not move but his mouth, open eyes on the ceiling.

"You speak of freedom."

"I do."

"Not of love."

Spartacus was not sure if that was a question, but he knew where those words came from. He had been there.

"You will not have that love if you are not free."

"You use us with words wisely, do you not?"

Spartacus fell silent for a moment. Oenomaus listened carefully.

"I have known love, Crixus. Unlike none I will ever feel. It is what kept me alive. You have what I lost, I see it in your eyes. You told me once I deserved to die as a gladiator, on the sand."

"I must have been drugged that day."

"You were not, and you know it. You spoke true words as a gladiator. They have taken that away from you and now you would give your soul to them? You would not fight?"

"I cannot fight." The words came through gritted teeth.

"But you can live and inspire those who admire you. You do not deserve to die as a gladiator, Crixus."

"I am not going to."

Ignoring the evident and painful truth the Gaul bore inside, Spartacus made his last try. "You deserve to live. As a free man. Beyond these walls. With her."

"Doctore is right. You are a fool. Yet I want a favour from you. Make sure Naevia stays safe. I will...I will..." The though churned, but he would do it if he had to. He would deny Naevia if he had to in order to keep her safe. But once dead he needed the one man whom he knew would do anything for love. Spartacus would not fail. This brought some relief.

Yet not for long.

"I will not do such a thing."

Spartacus left.

The cry of the Gaul reached him, yet he would not turn or stop his determined pace. The next time he saw Crixus, he would be nailed and hanging from a wood. The rest would be forced to witness. Batiatus and his wife would be on the balcony too. And wherever the woman was, Naevia would be behind. She would see Crixus, and so would he.

Spartacus hoped to be right.

_**OOO**_

He had refused the wine offered to numb the pain. He wanted her to be his last sight.

He had not screamed when the nails pierced his skin beneath his wrists, nor fought against the guards tying him to the wood that now rested on his shoulders.

Had not flinched when the guards pulled the chains elevating him. His mind focused, his eyes searched.

He would not cry, yet he seemed not to be strong enough to hold the tears threatening. Before they found their way he turned his head down, looking for the target. The other promise he had made for himself. He would find a way to cross the afterlife back and kill Spartacus. The mere thought of the Thracian's name vanquished the tears, and the fury he would not let Naevia see once he stood in front of her quickly found the man.

Only to suddenly change into realization. He would not keep his eyes from him, yet he was not defying. He was reaching out, giving him the truth, a truth that his brute mind would fail to see until he had been taken to the edge of life. He was approaching the balcony, and one last thing caught his eye before parting his sight from the Thracian. Safe from prying Roman eyes, as all gladiators stood under the balcony to witness his death, he mouthed him the only word he had seemed to speak to him.

_Live_.

The wood reached its end. Crixus rose his head and all figures disappeared but one. The world vanished around them. Time froze for one last moment in borrowed time.

They did not need to talk. A smile, a touch, a look. They have perfected that.

Crixus saw Naevia and all pain faded, fighting with sheer will to bring peace to the haunted face, fighting herself to conceal her feelings.

Her life depended on it, and he would not see her die.

Another realization. This an even uglier truth. The very woman Naevia was hiding her feelings from. If she knew...

_Live_.

Spartacus' voice hammered in his mind. And suddenly the voice changed. It was not the Thracian speaking it. It was her. The reason he wanted to live for.

He shared one last look with Spartacus.

He thought he saw the Thracian nod.

And then Crixus focused his eyes on Naevia for the longest moment he could bear without arising suspicions on preying birds lurking around them.

Then Crixus closed his eyes, let his head drop and his body limp.

He moved no more.

_**OOO**_

"It is done."

Dominus words took Naevia out of the trance her sight had taken to. She had almost lost her breath, seeing the still figure hanging in front of her, past the bodies behind who she stood, miraculously managing to hide the turmoil threatening her very balance.

She could listen to their voices like a distant echo.

Dominus would bark an order to his guards. "Leave him for the night and then feed him to the vultures."

She would almost cry at the thought.

Then Dominus would soften his voice. A hand on Domina. Offering food.

Cravings. Apples.

Another order, not to her. A slave bringing the fruit. Domina taking a knife and eating. Suddenly dropping the fruit. Feeling unwell.

Her eyes seeking for Crixus through the sudden distress. Yet still listening, alert, knowing she would have to leave as soon as she was demanded to. Somehow, unbeknownst to her, she is supporting Domina, who asks for the medicus, letting herself lean on her. Naevia has to focus on not letting Domina fall. She is a tall woman and Naevia feels the weigh.

A medicus is called. Domina will not have her husband accompany her. Something about burden.

Dominus obliges.

Finally, Naevia leaves, forced to offer support to the woman that has sentenced her love to death, not able to do anything, not even showing her feelings.

_**OOO**_

Batiatus looked at the still figure hanging on the wall. The former champion was no more.

Now only Spartacus remained to sustain the ludus, and perhaps, if he was lucky, a few from the new batch. One of the brothers, maybe. The eldest. He suddenly cared not, for soon he would have the patronage, and with it, the gates open to the Senate.

Abiding to Lucretia's will, he did not go to her room where she would be soon tended by the medicus.

Batiatus did not notice the missing knife on the table.

The one Lucretia had used to cut the apple.

_**OOOOO**_


	8. Part VIII Foundations

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

_**OOOOO**_

_**Part VIII "Foundations"**_

_**OOOOO**_

_**45 BC**_

_"Father?"_

_"Go, Lucretia."_

_"She bleeds. Why would he hurt her?"_

_**OOO**_

She arrived in the world the morning of the day Quintus and her had met in Capua's market.

Lucretia was certain now that the child had been one of the attractions Titus Batiatus had urged Quintus to use in order to lure her inside, sure of the power newborns exerted on women and their emotions towards maternity, for no sooner had she entered the villa, he had had the little bundle brought for her to see the very distinct girl.

Mixed feelings still haunted her despite her will and the truth above everything: she loved Quintus. And Quintus loved her. The thought of his anguish when he knew he was introducing her into a barren world, yet surrendering to it for he knew he would not know happiness if not by her side, brought a faint look of sympathy hidden behind her eyelids as she waited patiently for the physician to finish examining her.

Indeed, she had been fond of the girl the moment she had placed eyes on her. The mixture of mother and father had rendered a unique tone to the baby's skin, making her one of a kind. She had held the little bundle and had been captivated by those brown eyes staring into hers, oblivious to the social chasm that separated them. Lucretia had shared a look with Quintus and had smiled, her imagination already picturing a future familiar scene between them. The joyfulness and the secret hopes would repeat only a handful of times; and never with their own child, the happiness soon turning into veiled sadness.

Lucretia stiffened in discomfort, earning a quick apology from the medicus, and decided to remain inside her mind, despite the bitterness that enveloped it, for the present was sourer.

She drifted back towards one cherished memory: making love for the first time. Bold and clandestine, against traditions. After that, they had both remained naked, reveling in the shared moment, feeling their bodies touch. She remembered Quintus tracing idly shapeless patterns on her shoulder with his fingers while she closed her eyes to receive his touch. Then, following some invisible impulse, he had asked her to name the newborn child she had been so wrapped up in, under his promise that one day, the girl would be hers.

_Naevia._

_A plebeian gens. Uncommon honor for a slave.__ A reason to serve her Domina with greater intensity._

_Naevia, then._

Then, with a hint of prudency and fear, he had asked where he should send the girl when she was ready to take command, earning a smile before she answered.

_You __do not need to send her anywhere._

The memory was warming and a dagger at the same time. It spoke of hopes and happiness, yet now those seemed to shatter under the edge of their present.

"You can cover yourself, Domina."

The voice was faintly heard, and it came from the midwife, standing by her side, as she had followed the examination close by, and bowing her head in respect. Lucretia looked towards her feet and saw the medicus was not there. Her mind had sunk deeper than she thought. Turning her head, she saw him washing his hands and drying them with the cloth provided by Naevia. Covering the exposed half of her body, she sat up, quickly feeling a wave of dizziness that, however, would soon pass.

Dismissing the midwife's supporting hand with a gesture, she addressed the physician. "Speak."

The man, who was writing something, spoke. "The child is still within your body."

"But the cramps—"

"Normal indication of pregnancy. Still, I would recommend rest."

"So there is something wrong."

Her tone was neutral.

The physician looked at her, receiving an unexpected impression. Before he answered, he saw her commanding the slaves out of the room. Before him stood a woman with determination written all over her face, yet not a trace of the concern that should be expected in such situation. "In a woman of your age," he said fearing a reaction, yet forced by his ethics to speak the truth, "I would not fall low on precautions. Yet," he quickly added, "your health is above that of any average woman I have examined, so you should not concern yourself in excess."

"My body is fine, then."

The woman seemed not to like making questions, yet simply state facts. He nodded in confirmation.

"Healthy enough to conceive again were I to..." he saw her hesitate, and for the first time since he had entered the room, a hint of sadness crossing her face only to fade as fast as it had arrived. "...to lose this child?"

The physician pondered carefully the answer. "After a process of healing," he began, "it is quite probable your body would be able to take seed again," he concluded. "Yet this child seems to be a strong one, as the mother," he assured. "I have left for your midwife a list of medicaments you should not take. Rest and everything should be fine."

_Fine. _

Her mind snorted with disgust at the word. No, it was not fine. Life had at last opened for her, for them, and now it was filled with darkness, pain and treason.

Treason.

Her hatred towards Ilithyia had grown strong and she would soon see that the young woman received what she deserved. The daughter of senator Albinius would pay.

But treason had also come from the most unexpected source, now absent from her side, yet surely waiting outside to be commanded.

Lucretia still had the image of Crixus' eyes, seeing through her as if she was not there, with a face full of love, despite his effort to conceal, for the slave standing behind her.

Faking faintness due to her condition had been easy. Naevia would not stay in the balcony any longer sharing what she did not deserve. As predicted, Quintus, concerned with her well being, had ordered her to help his wife, and she had leaned heavily on the slave, feeling how she trembled.

Lucretia had let herself sense the fear emanating from Naevia, reveling in the power she exerted over her, and had kept the closeness in order to witness Naevia's suffering through the death of Crixus, despite that act being her last selfless favor for the Gaul, releasing him from a death in life.

Lucretia silently cursed herself, for she had felt sadness too, no doubt coming from this uncontrolled weakness, in all likelihood brought by the new changes her body and mind seemed to be so quickly experimenting. She neglected it. Her hardness had been her ally for too long. Weakness was not accepted in the house of Batiatus, and that included her.

And now she understood that beyond her desire of having a child, both for her and for their marriage, Crixus had been a weakness. It had been her fault, despite Quintus' lie and treason. Now she was at peace with her husband: she had taken away from him his desired vengeance over the Gaul, and effectively ended Crixus' suffering. Quintus had abided, meekly abandoning his vengeful eagerness. A treason for a treason.

And then, like Quintus had done with Spartacus, she would do with Crixus.

The lovers would be reunited.

Lucretia walked towards the table where the list laid while she called for the slave. "Naevia!"

The woman entered the room. "Domina."

Lucretia eyed the list. All those herbs were safely kept under key. There would be no way...she silently shook her head, and traveled back to her original plan.

"Go fetch me water."

Once alone again, Lucretia went back to the bed and slid her hand under the sheet, grabbing the knife she had brought hidden under her garment from the balcony and cleaning it from the apple's remains.

_**OO**_

_**45 BC**_

_"Father?"_

_"Go, Lucretia."_

_"She bleeds. Why would he hurt her?"_

_"Your uncle is a medicus, he knows what he is doing. Leave now, young girl."_

_Ever the obedient daughter, Lucretia turned and left the room, yet not before catching the words exchanged between both men._

_**OOO**_

"Do you think he still lives?"

Spartacus eyed the still figure and knew that if he had not chosen his words wisely that day when training, the lack of a helping hand by his side would have seriously hampered Crixus' already slim chance at survival.

_**OO**_

The hours preceding Crixus' crucifixion had been filled with tension. Oenomaus and Spartacus had returned to their respective tasks, trainer, and trainee, in silence.

"Spartacus. You fight Agron."

Spartacus had nodded and taken the swords, beginning the fight. He had learned there not to rush his tongue before he knew he was confronting friend or enemy. Within the brotherhood, that translated into being on one of two sides: Spartacus' or Crixus'. The Gaul had been the one to settle the dormant dispute, yet Spartacus knew he had but deepened the fracture through his arrogant bravado. One more thing to regret of his misguided ways.

As he deflected Agron's moves with ease, he studied the German as to determine where he stood. The advantage with the last batch of slaves to arrive at the ludus was that he was already champion, so most of them regarded Spartacus with admiration. Agron added to his allegiance the fact that he bore no sympathy for Crixus, as he had repeatedly humiliated his brother. Spartacus would not trust an ally if loyalty hanged through a thread, yet if he could made him understand why it was of the essence to keep Crixus alive, or at least risk his life to safe him, Agron's loyalties would be solid as a rock.

"I am freeing Crixus tonight. I need your help." He stroke forward, finding the shield blocking the wooden sword. Agron was a good fighter.

"You are fucking out of your mind, champion."

"Madness is better than submitting to injustice."

Agron looked at him, with eyes round. "What do you speak of?," he asked in a whisper.

"Freedom," he simply stated. "Will you help or not?" Agron attacked, making Spartacus turn and spin, parrying the blow aimed to his side and hitting the German in the back.

Agron touched the sore area and adopted defense again. "Anyone trying that will die before Crixus' feet meet the ground again."

"I will not die," he said as he deflected another blow and attacked, hitting the shield and forcing Agron to defend.

"I was not only speaking of you, champion. If I am by your side I will be feeding worms before the sun rises."

"Not if we are united," he insisted. "If you want your brother to live, you will help me."

His assertion earned him a stronger blow, yet soon the German pondered it. Duro would not survive long in the arena. It was but a miracle that he had even passed the test, bearing the mark of the brotherhood in his arm. "What do you need him for?," he asked, still with doubt in his tone. "He is but a piece of meat."

"He is a hero to most. And those will only follow him, not me."

"He is in no shape," Agron insisted.

Parry, attack, deflect.

"But you are."

Blow.

"You are the fucking champion of Capua!"

Defense, offense.

"You intently ignore what you never saw, Agron. He was the champion before me. Not long before you arrived."

"Yet the title fell from his hands."

"Unfairly," Spartacus admitted for the first time.

"You slew Theokoles," the German half asked, half asserted.

"I merely parted head from body. And would have not done so if not for his help."

"I will not risk my life for that Gaul shit."

Spartacus gave him no time to react and launched himself towards Agron. "Listen to me!," he hissed in between blows. "I may be the one to lead us to freedom, yet if I lack the respect of the others, we will all find our end before we reach the gates. I can earn it if I risk my life for him. And for that I need your help."

Agron took his words carefully. He had observed Spartacus, first with fascination, then with intrigue and interest. Before him stood a man who did not take himself as anything more whilst all of Capua worshiped him, yet who radiated power. Who sought solitude over the joys offered to them, as if inside him stood a different world, one in which he found happiness and peace. He had also heard stories of the Thracian killing Solonius' men on the arena that first time, of saving his life and that of Dominus in a place they called the pits, of him losing his wife. And there were also stories he had heard on the lips of the gladiators who disliked Spartacus, of him as a traitor of Rome, deserting the army. A soldier who otherwise, would have earned Rome's favor.

Fate was twisted when you were not on the winning side. That lesson, Agron had learned the hard ways, due to the lack of wisdom his young age gave him. What he had seen in Spartacus had been both wisdom and power forged by experience.

The Thracian did not care about gladiators as his brothers. He had had but one. And Varro had perished by his own sword. The rest were men who shared his fate, a fate some relished, and others loathed. And now he spoke words of freedom, and of uniting gladiators. And he was willingly going to risk his life to obtain that unity. Their fate was indeed uncertain, and as much as he wanted to neglect it, Duro would soon die in the arena. Maybe Spartacus' madness was the only way.

Still. He needed to understand. "Why? Even if you only care about Crixus in order to obtain the others' willing hands you are likely to fall dead."

Spartacus lessened the intensity of the blows. "Not long ago, if my death had meant taking Batiatus' life with me, I would've welcomed it with arms open. I wanted revenge. I wished for nothing more. To be reunited with my wife, whose death he ordered."

Agron fell silent. He knew not of that story about the wife. "What stopped you?," he spoke quietly.

"Spartacus, Agron!"

They both looked at Doctore.

"Rest."

Both men realized the rest of gladiators were already feeding themselves. They left the swords on the box and walked towards the sheltered area. "Mira told me of a law. If I killed Batiatus, all slaves would be executed."

"Wodan's shit! Do the rest know this?"

"Gladiators seem to be only interested in glory and blood. I don't think they put their concerns in the Roman laws except for those that rule the games." Soon they were close to Doctore, enough for the trainer to listen. "My wife told me once I was destined to great and unfortunate things. I misguided my ways, yet my path was corrected. My fate lies not within these walls. Look at this house," he told Agron. "It bears no honor, no glory." He noticed Doctore stood silent. "Champions maimed with no reason but caprice. Others worse." His throat closed with Varro's name, whose death would haunt him for the rest of his life. "Batiatus has built his world on us. If we take that away from him, what stands in this house?," he finally said.

It was Doctore who spoke. "An empty shell."

"Help me descend Crixus. Then leave, and you'll be safe."

_**OOO**_

It had been a painful decision to make. She had not intended for it to end this way. She had been so happy, if only for instants.

Now sour times threatened to crush her will, to kill her hopes, and a trial unlike no other had been set for her, one she was being overly cautious about. The ways of the Gods were not always clear in their meaning.

They had already punished Capua and then finally quenched its thirst. Quintus believed Spartacus had been favored by them, but she was certain that the Thracian neglected the Gods, and he was but an instrument displayed before the house of Batiatus to finally rise as Quintus deserved. Capua regarded him as a mere lanista, and it infuriated him, as much as it hurt her.

Spartacus may have been instrumental in their rise, but Lucretia knew better, and her prayers and sacrifices had at last found ears, despite her husband's blasphemes. She was to secure that ascending path, for she believed that was the Gods' will. But her commitment could be shattered, and she had almost lost her way under the infatuation of a body sculpted in feeble glory. Now she understood why Juno had punished her, giving her this child.

She finally understood.

Lucretia thanked in a silent prayer for her relentless love for Quintus, for it was the rope out of this madness. The baby she was carrying now showed her she could shelter and nurture life within her, it gave her hope. The pain she felt at the thought of exposure was the penance to the boldness of her deceit. Only this life would not pay the price. She would not have her child know slavery.

Her mind wandered again amongst memories.

_**OO**_

_"Show me. Show me how you kill."_

_Her husband absent, Lucretia had summoned Crixus, with the hopes of being far from her next cycle as the excuse to have the gladiator's presence before her eyes. _

_The steam still covered their bodies as she rested on her back, and let the man blanket her body with kisses, softer now that the eagerness gave no further command to the body and the cock that led it, task fulfilled._

_"Do your eyes not witness, Domina?," he asked, letting a hint of concern slip his tongue, making her smile in delight for the care the brute man had learned to display with her over the passing time. "Perhaps I should change my ways so they please you instead of-"_

_He was silenced by her finger._

_"No. I see. I want not just my eyes, but my ears to know the glory."_

_"I only fight following Doctore's teachings," he humbly said, still not daring to look her in the eye._

_"Yet the ludus has only one champion. Tell me, Crixus."_

_"I...I first aim to-"_

_He started to speak the strategy as had always been shown by Doctore, but he was again cut._

_"No. Not like that."_

_He didn't understand. She grabbed one of his hands firmly and directed his gaze towards hers with the other one._

_"Show me."_

_He felt lost into a blue depth, and for moments, he tried to forget who was standing under him, to focus in the task commanded. He rose on his knees, never parting from her. The shift in position made his cock travel its way over her groin, stealing a soft moan of pleasure. He tensed his muscles so he did not press heavy against her thighs, the surface on which his body rested now, and moved his right hand towards her neck. He let it rest there, softly, a few instants, the other hand between her breasts. Then he traced a short line with both; the one resting on the neck moved to the side; the other, downwards._

_Red paint._

_"These cause a rapid death."_

_"You never strike there in the first place," she observed correctly._

_Crixus dared to smile. "There is no glory on a quick fight."_

_Then his hands traveled towards her arms and her legs. _

_Blue._

_"This is how you cripple your opponent. It gains you great advantage."_

_"You do not resort to it either, at least not with intensity."_

_"It can end a fight. True gladiators do not deserve it to be the cause of a rapid defeat. Such intentions have only driven my sword once."_

_And if he had been allowed, he would have cut off the fucking Ashur's leg. Only the undeserving luck that seemed to follow his ass kept him inside the ludus._

_"The arena cheers for blood, and blood you give them, mighty Crixus."_

_"And slow kills for my Domina."_

_"Show me where, tell me how do you strike your enemy and keep him alive until you see fit."_

_Yellow._

_He then drew the rest of the lines on her body as he spoke. He touched her breasts. "It all depends on how deep you gash him." He finally rested his hand on the belly, tracing with his fingers the same line he had seen Doctore draw so many times on the new gladiators with the paint. "If the cut is not deep enough, you will be weakened, yet not die."_

_She pressed her hand over his. "Not even here?"_

_"Not even there."_

_**OO**_

She heard the sandals and the fabric of her tunic as it moved with her otherwise delicately careful pace. "The water, Domina."

Lucretia was standing, her back turned from the slave. "Leave it on the table," she said with a neutral tone.

Naevia did as commanded.

Lucretia heard the pottery jar as it was softly placed on the flat surface. "Come."

Naevia approached.

"You were a beautiful child. One deserving of a Roman name, even though you were a slave."

"An honor I owe to you, Domina," she carefully replied.

"You have always served me well," she stated, her tone never betraying her. "Now I need you to do one thing more." Lucretia slowly turned and faced the slave, who quickly looked down. She extended her hand towards Naevia's chin and leveled it. "Your eyes are red, stained with tears," she said frowning, purposely showing concern.

Naevia knew not what to say.

And never expected what would follow.

"Worry not, child, for soon you'll be reunited with your lover."

Lucretia's last words were uttered through gritted teeth as she grabbed Naevia's hands with a firm grasp. Naevia gasped. Her hands touched something hard and cold, and then they were moved in a quick lateral strike.

Her eyes opened wide. Then, a slight tremble, jaws snapped closed and finally, she fell on her knees, seeking support with her hand.

Naevia realized the cold object she still held in her hands was a knife, stained now with blood. In a reflex she placed her hand on her belly, seeking for the wound that would kill her, yet horrified, she found none.

Only then she realized she was the only one standing.

The blood was not hers.

"Domina!"

Out of reflex Naevia kneeled, frantically looking for the blood. There was a cut, not deep, yet long, crossing Domina's belly.

Her mind was not reacting. Her mind worked as it had been taught, to serve and protect the woman who had given her a name.

Her cursed mind would not let her heart speak. Incomprehensibly, it had silenced it. Not only after she was trying to stop the bleeding with her hands, that Naevia realized, and, just like she had done when she was a baby, she looked directly into Lucretia's eyes regardless of titles, slave and master, finding an equally perplexed face looking back at her.

It lasted but an instant, but it left a mark on both women.

Naevia saw confusion.

Lucretia found herself looking into the same eyes that one day had settled tenderness, the same dark brown eyes that had helped bringing her and Quintus together.

A river of emotions flowed, and neither could understand them. It soon faded. Then, Naevia, out of the grasping blue eyes that stared back at her in confusion, slowly disengaged her hand from the bleeding wound.

"Now you're free to reunite with Crixus."

The words hit hard. They were not words of freedom.

Slowly, Naevia looked down and took the knife, this time consciously and with a firm grasp.

_**OOO**_

_His blade was stained with blood. He cleaned the metal and then took the stone to sharpen it. He did not like the sword, yet he could not deny he was good with it. And if it meant protecting her life, then he would carry it close to him. One day, the battles would end._

_War could not last forever._

_Her presence warmed his very soul, and he let the weapon aside as he closed his eyes, seeking her comfort while she walked inside the tent._

_"Are you hurt?"_

_Sura always tended to the wounds first. It had taken him time, yet he had learned to accept it, not discussing, nor concealing. Soon, the reluctance had turned into silent eagerness just to feel her touch, a balm in itself._

_"Just a scratch on my right side."_

_She half snorted, half complained. "You name scratches where I see gashes, warrior." He chuckled. She moved the cloak and stiffened slightly, then breathed. "Yet for once your words match the appearance."_

_"I learned."_

_"Took you long."_

_"I was stubborn."_

_"You were stupid." She laughed._

_He loved that sound. Her husky voice ringing in happiness amid the battle. Smiling, he took her hand and invited to sit in front of him, circling her body with his arms, loosing himself in her scent as she cuddled in his warm embrace._

_"How long do you think we can settle here?," she asked._

_"The Getae seem to approach. It might be sooner than I would like," he said. Their dream of building their life, was again threatened to be shattered, and he was growing restless. "There is word of a Roman legion approaching. They want to negotiate."_

_"I know." _

_He felt her stiffen and fall silent._

_He looked at her, suddenly with concern. "Sura?"_

_She __bore that look. Lost in a world he could not comprehend, of Gods and visions, words spoken by beings he could not see, nor believe in, despite she had faith in_ them. Sometimes she would wake at night, shaking and sweating. Then, lost like a child, she would turn her head, only calming down when she saw him by her side. Finding him and laying back, demanding his embrace to blanket her as if it were the only way to fall asleep again. But she would not speak, only cling to his arms and close her eyes tightly.

_She had that look._

_"You know you have always fought to keep everyone safe," she said, earning a questioning look from her husband. "You must not forget that. It makes you who you are."_

_He did not understand. He knew who he was. "I am not such a thing, Sura. I am the one to fight for his wife._

_She said no more._

_He worried. "Why do you speak like that?"_

_Sura talked not of her vision. Of the words spoken by the Gods. She was not ready to tell him, although it would come soon. The visions...she had fought them with all her might, yet she knew nothing could be done against their will._

_She remained silent._

_He did not press. Yet her words raised a question in his mind and he gave it way to his tongue. "Sura."_

_As he called her name, his wife looked at him. "The Romans. Will that be a mistake?"_

_He pleaded with his eyes. _

_She only wished he was strong enough for what was to come. "You will do the right thing."_

_**OO**_

_You will do the right thing._

Those random words had returned to his mind, and he clung to them with all his might.

He and Agron had waited impatiently until the last of the guards had left the square, never parting their eyes from the figure hanging, hoping his gods, whoever they were, gave him strength.

"Do you think he still lives?," asked Agron. "Fuck, he's so still."

Spartacus did not answer, yet he hoped. The agony of such a powerful man, hanging on a cross, would be longer, for his muscles would bear the strain better than those of a weaker body. The Gaul they had crucified several moons past had lasted hours before succumbing.

Crixus had inclined his head soon, so Batiatus saw his surrender. Knowing that watching the unmoving man would be of no interest for the Roman, that he would only want to see the struggle. Crixus had denied Batiatus the pleasure and had bought himself time. Time that could save his life. Now it was Spartacus' turn to keep his promise.

"Let's go," he whispered to Agron.

They silently crossed the square, thanking the absence of the moon and freed the chains that held the wood, tensing their muscles with all their might so the heavy body descended as silently and carefully as possible. Crixus stiffened when he felt the move.

Spartacus did not realize it until Agron spoke with an unexpected grin. "Fucking bastard. He yet lives." He was smiling too.

Soon, Crixus' feet touched the ground and Spartacus gave him some moments so he could sit instead of falling on his knees, while Agron kept watch. Silently, the Gaul let his back rest on the wall as Spartacus kneeled on one of his sides, taking a loincloth and a piece of leather he had cut from the straps that held the wounded when needed. He extended his arm and placed the leather in his mouth.

As soon as Crixus bit it, Spartacus carefully extracted the iron nails, and bandaged the bleeding wrists tightly. Once he received confirmation from Agron, he placed one of Crixus' freed arms on his shoulders, ready to walk away from the sand.

"Can you walk?"

The Gaul merely nodded and with all the strength left, stood up, yet stopping Spartacus before they resumed the walk, ignoring the nervous German gladiator standing beside them.

"I kept my promise, Thracian. Now it's your turn."

"Naevia will be my first concern once I-"

"No." He roughly cut him. His voice revealed no weakness.

"I will have Mira looking out for her as soon as you are hidden, and I will personally see her free from harm before anything happens."

"Dare not do that and I will hunt you, Thracian. I will put all the gladiators against your traitorous name and I will not rest until I see you in the Underworld."

"You have my word."

The three men left as rapidly as the wounded man allowed. Agron had checked, and indeed no guard had seen them.

But not just Romans wandered the ludus, and one particular man had mastered the art of hiding in the shades.

Only when the gladiators had disappeared from his sight dared Ashur to abandon the shadows, pondering the reasons behind such treacherous act. He had no doubt that it would be directed against Dominus.

Ashur drew no sympathy from the rest of the brotherhood, especially fucking Crixus and Doctore, who had gotten closer to finding out the truth about Barca's death. Whatever they tried, a pack of gladiators out to raven was bound to fail. And Ashur would not be found amongst them, even if he was not planning to stay. A revolt would hamper the legatus' visit and his freedom from the villa with it.

Ashur turned his head towards the house. Dominus would be up at this hour, attending affairs, as the crucifixion had slowed them, so it would be easy to find him, as he still had free range inside the villa.

_**OOO**_

She ran.

She ran across the house, silently, avoiding the guards, who she knew well enough to wander the house freely. She returned to the balcony, stopping abruptly when she did not see him. On the sand stood the shadow of a lonely wood, yet no trace of a human body.

The sounds of guards approaching made her close the curtains, hiding the void in the wall from view and staying still until the Romans passed through.

Then she ran. She ran again towards her death. Domina had set it for both, destroying any hope of a future. Then so be it, but she would be the one deciding when and how, not the Roman who had named her.

The tears clouded her vision, yet not sopped her. Soon her feet had taken her to the sands of the practice square, the healer's chamber in her mind, where she thought whoever had freed Crixus might have taken him The same place where she had visited young Pietros' body.

Suddenly, a hand stopped her.

Her breath resumed when she saw it belonged to Doctore. "Which deeds would take you this far at this hour?, "he asked, not devoid of concern.

"Those that condemn me to follow Crixus' fate, driven by the same source."

Oenomaus pulled her gently towards the shadows. "What do you know of Crixus?"

"As Domina ordered his death, she also sealed mine. She made me stab her," she revealed, still horrified by the reality. "She has killed her unborn child, and will place the blame on me." Her hands still shaking, she showed Doctore the knife, as her face reflected a new seriousness the trainer had never seen before. "Yet if I am to die, it will be on my terms. By his side."

Oenomaus' heart warmed for them. Such love had been seen rarely inside those walls, and every time it had ended in death severing it. Pietros. Spartacus' wife. Varro. "Erase thoughts of death, Naevia."

She looked at him, confused.

"Crixus is not dead. Spartacus saved him."

For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. "Take me to him," she pleaded.

Oenomaus silently nodded and guided her towards his room.

"This ludus has risen to glory, yet its foundations are falling apart," she suddenly said.

Her words stroke him. To hear such unexpected truth from the lips of a slave girl who had never known freedom. Perhaps that background was what rendered her such vision, not clouded by dreams of life outside the walls. Slaves were the foundations of the ludus, and the Romans inhabiting this house were destroying them.

And that would not be the only revelation Naevia had for him, as she continued talking, her eyes already seeking for Crixus. "Barca was never freed. What if Crixus had earned enough to buy our freedoms? Would we have end up like him?"

Oenomaus grew serious and halted, stopping Naevia with his hand. "Give light to your words." She looked at him as if jerked from a trance. "You spoke of Barca not gaining his freedom."

"He is dead. Perished under Batiatus' hand, betrayed by Ashur." There was no longer a reason to hide the secret.

They were right. Naevia and Spartacus. There was no honour left inside those walls.

_**OOO**_

It was late, and he was nervous and tired, yet he would not rest.

Lucretia had asked him not to come see her, and so he had abided yet not finding ease to sleep. He was planning instead. Trying to focus on the glory to come once they had Glaber's patronage. He paced back and forth, creating and rehearsing the words to speak, pondering the different outcomes and the sharpest responses were they needed. And he found himself where he had started: missing Lucretia. Everything he did had her by his side. Her silent support or a more accurate word to use in his elocution, it did not matter. She was there. A soft kiss, her sympathetic look, filled with love. A caress.

He missed everything.

"Fuck!," he cursed, oblivious to the incoming presence, that would cough before attempting to enter the room.

Batiatus turned to the sound and saw Ashur standing by the entrance.

"I'm in no mood, Ashur. What fucking deed brings you here at this hour?"

"A word. Yet I fear not a pleasant one, Dominus," he said bowing his head.

"Haven't the Gods thrust their cocks through my ass enough today that trouble is brought to my very house when every body else is sleeping?"

"It seems the source of trouble wished precisely that, Dominus."

Batiatus sighed, tired. "Speak, and be clear in your fucking words if it cannot wait for the sun to come."

"I am afraid it can't indeed." He paused. "Crixus lives."

Batiatus froze and looked at him in the eye, forcing Ashur to turn his head avoiding it. "Repeat that."

"The former champion of Capua lives." He swallowed. "And hangs no more on the wall."

Without a word Batiatus left the room and headed for the balcony, when a few hours before he had seen the Gaul close his eyes and give up fighting.

The curtains were closed. Slowing down the pace he approached, grabbing both ends of the green fabric and opening it.

The wall was empty.

Rage boiling, he grabbed Ashur from the shoulders pinning the slave against the wall. "Who was it?," he hissed. "Speak!"

Fighting for air, Ashur said the name. "S-partacus. It was th-the Thracian, Dominus."

Batiatus released him, too many thoughts crowding his mind, his only reprieve the fact that if Spartacus had had a hand in it, this treason did not come from Lucretia's last attempt to save the Gaul's life.

"Bring me Spartacus."

"Dominus."

Ashur bowed his head and limped out of the room, followed by Batiatus, thinking of what reasons could lead the Thracian to betray him, and finding none. In his confusion, he didn't notice Ashur stopping abruptly. Not until the slave spoke.

"Domina!"

Batiatus raised his eyes and saw the Syrian looking towards a column, and then he heard her voice, barely a whisper.

"Quintus."

He quickened his pace, concern increasing, when he suddenly saw her stumbling, trying to walk leaning on the column, and held clumsily by Ashur before she hit the floor.

"Lucretia!"

There was blood around her hands and on her legs. Ashur had managed to place her on the floor, where Batiatus kneeled, hurriedly assessing his wife's wounds, finding but one cut on her belly, on which one of her hands clutched.

"Lucretia, what..."

He took his tunic off and placed it on the wound, making as much pressure as he could to stop the bleeding.

"Who did this? Was it Crixus? I swear, I will have is insides gashed open, I-"

"N-no. Not...Crixus," she managed to speak between shallow breaths. "Naevia."

He thought he had heard the name wrong. "Naev-?"

"She...she betrayed us, Quintus, she-"

"Shhh, do not speak, save your strength," he said as he helplessly tried to comfort his wife, grabbing her from behind, not letting go of the wound and wincing as she gasped when he moved her so she could lean on him while he sat. "I'm here," he whispered, wishing to calm his ragged wife, to slow down her breathing, feeling his hands wet through the stained fabric of his tunic. "Ashur," he spoke not letting his eyes from Lucretia.

"Dominus."

"Seek for Naevia. I want that fucking slave's head."

Ashur bowed his head in compliance.

"And fetch the medicus."

With no further ado Ashur left running as quick his crippled leg would allow him not avoiding the sneer shaping his face at the upcoming events.

Batiatus held her, not wanting to let go.

"It…I am f-fine, Quintus, I...I mov-ed before she..., it is shallow, I-"

"You will be fine," he reassured her. "You will be."

_**OO**_

_**45 BC**_

_"Father?"_

_"Go, Lucretia."_

_"She bleeds. Why would he hurt her?"_

_"Your uncle is a medicus, he knows what he is doing. Leave now, young girl."_

_Ever the obedient daughter, Lucretia turned and left the room, yet not before catching the words exchanged between both men._

_"Are you __certain she will lose it?"_

_"Bloodletting is a safe method. She will be weakened for some time, though."_

_Intrigued by the words, the young girl hid behind the walls and listened._

_"I should've been more careful."_

_"You should give your fucking slaves the herbs or keep your cock inside your robes, brother. Do__ not make me do this again."_

_"And what did you want me to do? Let her have it? Claim an illegitimate child or see it born to slavery? What of Lucretia?"_

_"__The girl is too young to understand."_

_"The girl is far more intelligent than you think, brother. Believe me, if I didn't know my daughter, I would swear there was a man hidden inside that body."_

_**OOOOO**_

**Author's notes: **

Wodan: German name of Odin among the Germanics

"Educational" use of painting for Gladiators: see Kubrick's _**Spartacus**_.

Bloodletting is apparently documented as a safe abortion method in Antiquity.


	9. Part IX Slaves of Rome

**Title**: A Distant Memory

**Chapter warnings**: it falls within "_**Spartacus: Blood and Sand**_" standards. Sex, language, femslash (does this really need to be warned?) and violence. Nothing that has not been seen the show: bear that in mind, you might read unpleasant things.

**Spoilers**: With season 1 over, not really spoilers, but there's mention of events from several episodes, so if you're in the midst of watching the show, read no further unless you don't mind being spoilered.

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

**Credit: **xenokattz helped again with some medical stuff I was stuck with.

_**Part IX. "Slaves of Rome" (conclusion)**_

_**OOOOO**_

_**THREE DAYS AHEAD**_

_My eyes torment me with visions I wish were not true, yet each time I open them hoping to see nothing, there she stands; swell, ripe, beautiful._

_Inviting._

_She smiles at me with that complacent look she masters to perfection, contriving, as no one else can, a deviant concoction of vulnerability, strength, hate and desire. Driven by heinous forces of yearning I do not command, I take a step towards her._

_She will be the end of me._

_Now I stand close enough to hear her breathing, body and mind turning desire into lechery, raw lust that I try to fight. For an instant I manage to halt, but only with great difficulty._

_I pushed her to the edge so she could not harm me, yet here she stands glowing, knowing she still exerts control over me. Once again I close my eyes to make the vision go away, only to be slapped by my own memory's mockery, showing me how things have changed. How everything has been reversed. It presents me my inner joy when I saw the confused face on the woman the first time I tasted her lips, staring into the most piercing blue I had ever seen looking back at me, confused and intrigued at the same time._

_Lucretia, the woman of unveiled contradictions, hinted only on the surface, inciting me to want to know more. To peel her, layer by layer, mentally and, what scares me the most, physically._

_I thought I had her in my grasp._

_I was wrong._

_She invites me to come inside, and I __cannot hold myself any longer, walking the step that separates us, not realizing my hand, taking command of its own, travels to her breast with my body, deprived of will, following. The hand trembles yet does not stop, and before I can react, my lips are touching hers. Her lips are not her most beautiful feature, yet I desire them, eager to trespass the wall and enter inside the cavity of her mouth, like that last time when I thought I was saying my final goodbyes. And then my eyes open wide and round, for the kiss is well received and reciprocated. For the first time, her tongue meets mine and passes through, exploring my mouth slowly, taking delight in the task, and stealing my breath. It ends too soon, and I know my face shows disappointment, for she laughs and looks at me in sympathy before placing an innocent kiss on my temple and embracing me._

_And I cannot do anything. I am at her mercy, and I want to stay there as my body responds to her hands while they strip me of my garment, the silk sliding through my back, followed by her warm touch. I can already feel the wetness underneath._

_We are naked in bed now. Kneeling over her, I strive to take command. She takes pleasure as the observant, studying placidly my moves, enjoying my hunger and fascination, growing to the point that I do not know where to start. She is finally mine._

_Or am I hers? I suddenly wonder if this is how she felt when it was Crixus the one serving her. If I am her slave now._

_Am I?_

_In my confusion, in my own disgust for letting myself fall into her trap, the one I ran from only days ago, she gently takes my hands and places them on her breasts. The rest follows and all thoughts fade. My whole body is touching her. My feet rub her legs, my thighs wish to melt into hers, and below, the increasing pleasure is indescribable. Relishing in the fact that I have managed to have her underneath, I kiss her again, deeply, letting my own breasts touch hers as I knead them while my tongue seeks relentlessly new territories to explore. Lost in my own pleasure I mumble idiocies, the last one being my damnation. _

_"My body aches for a cock to enter you."_

_"You do not need a cock to do that."_

_I have no time to react when suddenly Lucretia bends her knee between my thighs cutting my breath. She might be older, but by no means is she less strong. I feel my arms grabbed and, prey of her eyes I am turned on my back, unable to move, unwilling to fight. I can only feel her hand sliding down my belly, my body arching with need towards her as she opens my folds with her fingers and thrusts them inside._

Ilithyia awoke jerking, sweating and breathing hard, still a throbbing sensation below.

Gaius remained asleep by her side. She leaned her back on the wall and sighed. She had killed, she had deceived, she had done such horrid things, that her father and husband would be nauseated were they to discover, and still the one memory that tormented her was one single woman who she had tried to destroy. Instead of banishing into oblivion, she had come back, haunting her dreams in the most devious ways.

Lucretia was but a woman underneath her social status, with a foolish ambition to rise and willing to do anything to attain such heights. Her head knew this. Why would her heart refuse to follow? Why would it rebel against its very owner?

The thought inflamed her. She would not let a memory haunt her actions. She had left that behind, only a few ends left to tie, and plans for some had already been set in motion; She had ordered the Syrian slave's death, knowing he would reveal her secret if driven by necessity. The guard she left behind would soon return bearing the news.

Then she would find a way to frame the dead slave for Licinia's death, somehow, and such a vile act would inextricably fall on Batiatus, being the slave Ashur his trusted servant. She knew she could use Solonius and his hatred towards the lanista as a tool to settle firmly the blame on Batiatus. No one would believe a lanista's word over a rival of higher scale and the daughter of a senator, also wife to Legatus Claudius Glaber, whose patronage Batiatus sought and had been denied. She had made sure, those last days, to push him to his very limits, opening a rift between him and Lucretia and lying about her husband's arrival, taunting the snake before taking away its prey.

Carefully pondering her options, she did not see Gaius opening his eyes, frowning slightly at his pensive wife, lost in some thought. "What ideas would engage my wife to such depths?," he said upon rising, kissing her shoulder.

Erasing her dream from mind, Ilithyia squeezed his hand in mild affection. "None my husband has to worry for," she said urging a calming smile. "Just...thinking how far Capua seems now, and how glad I am my husband is back by my side."

A perfect lie.

"My first impression was you enjoyed Capua, and its games."

"My stay there meant that my husband was not by my side. The games...those ravenous men," she spoke faking disgust. "Trained to kill."

"Slaves train to kill, Ilithyia, do not mistake them for men," he said, scorn unmistakably steering his voice.

She nodded, as if in agreement. "It was a dangerous place, sheltering ambitions unworthy of its dwellers."

"Ambitions you told me you severed, having one of your guards sending them a message on my behalf denying them my patronage."

Thankful of her husband bringing the thread she needed, Ilithyia started to weave her net. "I have seen things in Batiatus that make me fear, Gaius. He is not a man of honor."

"He has built his wealth upon beasts, Ilithyia," he said, mind set on his own experience with Spartacus. "He belongs in the sand; the plebs and the Arena his senate."

"He is becoming a powerful man," she advised. "His name dwells on every Capuan's mouth."

"When the source of his glory falls, his power will plummet with him," he sentenced.

Ilithyia turned, carefully choosing every little gesture in her face. "I have seen things I never dreamed I would. Do not underestimate this man, Gaius. I fear he is capable of anything."

Glaber looked at his wife trying to decipher the enigma hidden behind those caring eyes. "What have you seen that has your mind captive?," he half asked, half demanded to know, intrigued by the insistence of his wife on keeping the lanista away.

But before she could respond, a slave entered the room. "Apologies, Dominus."

"Speak," commanded Glaber.

"A guard has come from Capua, bearing important news. He awaits at the doors."

Glaber stood up and covered himself with a tunic, knowing that no soldier would dare to disturb him at such early hour if it was not important. He noticed Ilithyia also prepared to leave the room with him, interested in the news.

The guard waited, disheveled, wearing peasant's clothes, agitation shaping his features. "Legatus," he said bowing his head.

Glaber examined him. He recognized the face, but barely, under those garments and the dirt covering him. "Delay not your words. What news bring you from Capua to render you in such a state?"

"I barely escaped the madness myself, had to leave the horse, the armor...the gladiators!," he babbled in between short breaths.

"The gladiators what?," asked Glaber, exasperated at the lack of clarity.

The guard looked at him, still horrified from the sight he had encountered when, hiding from the raging freed slaves, he had run inside the house, finding nothing but the remains of a slaughter, all guards and a few slaves tingeing the sand crimson.

"They killed them all," he said. "The gladiators killed them all and left. They have been seen heading for the Vesuvius, rampaging through every street, stealing wealth, freeing slaves and killing any who dares defend!"

"Batiatus?"

"I saw the man, or what was left of him," said the guard.

Glaber, serious, nodded. Ilithyia stood still by his side, not a word spoken.

"They were led by the man they called Spartacus, it's all I know," the guard carefully added.

Those words had the final effect on him. Glaber's voice sounded low when he called the slave. "Antoninus."

"Dominus."

"Ready my horse." As the servant quickly left, Glaber turned to Ilithyia. "It seems Capua crawls with vermin."

His wife looked at him, suddenly awakened from the trance she seemed to be in. With a sudden relief for seeing at last and unexpectedly her crime buried, abruptly replaced by a sting of concern for one name, Ilithyia spoke to her husband. "What are you going to do?"

"What should have been done the minute that fucking Thracian stepped into the Arena." Then he turned to the guard. "Mount Vesuvius, you say?"

The guard nodded.

"You are going after Spartacus."

Glaber cupped Ilithyia's face with his hands and looked at her in his usual confidence, that which always disregarded his misfortunes whenever they came, igniting his wrath. "Batiatus has served me the glory that will finally give your husband the honor he deserves. The traitor of Rome will perish under my sword."

Ilithyia was left with the guard, whom she stopped before he abandoned the room.

"You."

He turned. "I followed your orders, yet the slave never appeared at the market," he said. "He most probably joined the raiders," he added, fearing the Roman's reaction.

Ilithyia ignored the news. United as a slave, the Syrian would have no interest whatsoever in her, now he was free. There was a question etching her mind. "The owners of the ludus."

The guard winced at the vision. "His head was parted from his body, he-"

Ilithyia ventured the question her mind ached to ask, fearing the answer. "What of the woman?"

"Woman?"

"The wife of Batiatus, Lucretia. Is she dead too?"

_**OOO**_

_**PRESENT**_

The first to arrive had been the midwife. The robust woman had helped him to carry Lucretia back to her room. Batiatus had forced himself to swallow his fear as he saw the trail of blood she had left behind in seeking for her husband. As she heavily leaned on him and the midwife, no words were exchanged between them, only furtive squeezes, caresses and gentle kisses from him, hopelessly trying to comfort Lucretia, who, swaying between awareness and unconsciousness, focused all her efforts in fighting the pain.

Once they gently laid her on the bed, Batiatus kneeled, one hand on the wound, his tunic soaking, and the other grabbing her hand, seeking reassurance that she was still with him. Immersed in his wife, Batiatus had not sensed the frantic movements of the midwife, grimly preparing herbs and powders she knew the medicus could need. Neither he noticed the physician entering until he saw the man by his side, moving the tunic and the smooth fabric of her dress to assess the extent of the damage.

"It is not deep," he said confirming Lucretia's own words.

Slightly heartened by the medicus' initial recognition, Batiatus moved aside, letting the physician space to work, gently rubbing Lucretia's hand with his thumb, not parting his eyes from hers, open yet lost under the yoke of her suffering and aching with her each time she tensed whenever the medicus touched the injury or the tender skin surrounding it. His senses remained on the woman he refused to lose.

Batiatus had never imagined himself as a father. Knowing he could not have a child he had not nurtured the feelings that blossomed such yearning. To his own incredulity, he realized they were far from buried when, in a reflex, his hand firmly stopped that of the medicus when the scent of wine brought him back to the room and he saw the beverage about to be poured into Lucretia's mouth.

Batiatus' face changed into one threatening glare matched by the tone in his voice, harsh and low. "What in Tartarus do you think you are doing?"

The medicus, accustomed to irrational reactions, calmly responded. "Your wife needs stitches. There is no necessity of extending her suffering."

"With fucking wine?"

"It will numb the pain," was the curt reply.

"She is with child, has your damned mind forgotten?"

The medicus eyed him and spoke with a warm tone. "If by a miracle of the Gods the child still lives, it will not be for long."

Not fighting the mixed feelings his sudden concern for a life he had rejected had arisen, he fought the medicus' words. "The cut is shallow, you said so yourself."

"Her body has suffered much loss," he explained. "It needs to heal itself, recover strength, and for that, it must use all its remaining energy. A child hampers that course of restoration, and so, it dies. Nothing can be done for it."

Lucretia's clarity had returned at the very moment Quintus growled menacingly to the medicus. She felt briefly stung by the sudden care displayed by her husband towards the child she had known would inevitably die. Uncertain as to what length the care was for her life or that of the child. Not that it mattered anymore, she grimly mused.

She winced when the midwife helped her, with a firm hand on her back, to rise enough to drink as much wine as she could swallow, willingly letting the lightheadedness engulf her. In the moments her senses slowly started to drift, she could feel the warm breath on the top of her head. She imagined him kneeling there, serious, waiting as well, mind lost in thoughts she dared not to divine. "Quintus?" She called him in a whisper, short of strength.

He rose forward so she could see him. "I'm here."

"I know," she said. Her eyelids felt heavy. With an empty stomach, the big amount of wine she had ingested was rapidly making effect. She managed a faint yet visible smile.

"You will be all right. Sleep now." And as obedient as ever, he saw her close her eyes, yet the loving smile not leaving her lips. The sight made his heart tremble and ache.

Again, time advanced beyond his attention until he was addressed by the medicus. The wound was now covered, and Lucretia lay peacefully asleep.

"I stitched the gash, yet there is risk of it rotting. If your wife runs a fever have me called, I will need to reopen and purge the wound. Have her eat plenty of garlic and oregano, they will help preserve her health."

Batiatus nodded, finally stood up and approached the midwife. "Have Domina cleaned and properly covered," he commanded.

"Yes, Dominus."

"And see that she is moved to our room."

The woman bowed her head. "Dominus."

The midwife left to fetch some slaves. Batiatus walked towards Lucretia and kissed her again. "Rest now, Lucretia," he whispered.

He remained by her side only until the midwife returned with Mira and some men, who stood waiting at a distance. Then he left, letting the rage he had placed on the back of his mind to return in all its force.

_**OOO**_

After seeking the medicus, Ashur focused his mind on a more appealing task, following Dominus' commands regarding Naevia. If Crixus was still alive, he could take his last revenge on the Gaul ripping off his beating heart from his chest. Crixus, the fucking man who had self-righteously decided he did not deserve to be a gladiator, depriving him of the honor through sword and fire at the first chance presented.

Ashur knew he had only survived by determination, selling himself to Dominus as a useful right hand servant; reward paid, he had been favored by Dominus, although that privilege had placed him close to the edge with the gladiators. Now he needed not to care anymore for that scum; soon, if he played well his odds, he would be on a higher scale, in the very core of the Republic.

As he went to fetch a sword, he mused about how the Gaul would feel if he knew that he had killed his Naevia, yet not before forcing himself on her.

Sneering, he approached Doctore's cell, yet was abruptly stopped by the dweller before reaching the space.

"What brings Ashur here?," asked the man, neutral his voice.

"Dominus commanded me," said Ashur in an equal tone, challenging. "I want access to the swords."

"To what end?"

"Not your fucking business," he answered, now in his usual taunting, careless attitude.

Oenomaus responded unimpressed. "You might bring Dominus' orders with you, yet not once has he ever let anyone touch the weapons except for me."

"Dominus has his motives," he added, now more serious. Deep inside, his rage boiled. He had never had an effect on Doctore. The rest of gladiators he could use, mock or ignite their fury, yet never with him. Doctore was an impenetrable rock. Men he could not affect were the ones he could not destroy if his survival was at stake. Crixus was a brute. Barca had his weakness in the ill-fated boy, too young to know when he was being used. Varro, had he lived, would have made the mistake of exposing his vulnerability, wife and child, letting Ashur have him in his grasp. Spartacus, on the other hand, had soon turned his back on him, being indifferent, wanting nothing, asking nothing.

The silence coming from the trainer only increased his impatience. "The swords, Doctore."

Oenomaus leaned closer, making sure the Syrian slave looked at him in the eye. His sole presence was imposing, and he knew. "Ashur is known for lying. Ashur is known for betraying. What makes Dominus ask a snake to wield a sword he does not deserve to touch?" His words were the salt in his wound, and Oenomaus knew. He let the corner of his lips to curve upwards. Slight, almost imperceptible, yet unmistakably visible.

"To lop a head from its trunk, if you must know." Ashur knew of the sympathy Doctore felt for the slave, so he decided to turn the wheel in his favor and hurt the trainer instead. "Domina's slave stabbed her and ran, leaving her soaking in a pool of blood. I was with Dominus when he found her, so the command was set on me."

"You speak of Naevia?," asked Oenomaus faking ignorance of facts.

Ashur nodded. "And now, if your curiosity is well satisfied," he said extending a hand, "a sword." Doctore remained still and silent. Pensive, the Syrian mused. Yet Ashur was not a man of patience when he had a task to fulfill, even more when the matter required seeking an escapee. "Dominus will not look with pleasing eyes to the man that stalled his commanded right hand. Are you giving the slave time to run?"

Oenomaus looked down and closed his eyes. Ashur thought he saw him tense. Then, the trainer looked at him, his expression changed, and spoke with a low voice. "You need not to exit the ludus," he said gravely. "I know where she is. She hides in Spartacus' cell."

Ashur smirked, believing things could not look better for him. And the twisted corners of his mind found it amusing. "The betrayer hiding the killer. Twisted, yet fitting."

Oenomaus did not speak. Silently, he walked towards the secured weapons and gave him a sword.

Ashur took it, not tempting fortune at asking for Crixus' blade and looked at it mesmerized, feeling what he could have been and had not, for Crixus and his judgment over who deserved or not to be a gladiator. "Dominus wants her head. This should do," he said cocking his head to one side.

"Ashur,"

The Syrian turned to look at him.

"Cutting off a head requires skill. Strength. The right angle. She does not deserve—"

Ashur cut his words sharply. "Then better pray to your Gods that she opposes no resistance."

"Let me do it."

Ashur eyed him in incredulity. "Doctore wants to kill the slave?"

"I wish no suffering for her."

"Maybe Crixus, or Spartacus when Dominus comes to fuck the Thracian bitch," said Ashur taking delight in the moment. "But this one?" He shook his head not parting eyes from Doctore. "No, my friend. This one is Ashur's whore. Ashur will fuck. Ashur will kill." Determined, the Syrian walked towards the champion's cubicle, stopping suddenly when he noticed he was not walking alone. Bothered, he turned his head.

The answer was simple and direct. "Naevia does not deserve this fate. If she is to die, I will see that she has a comforting presence and her end is quick and painless."

Doctore's tone asked nothing: It would be done so, and no discussion would be allowed. Ashur knew: a cunning slave was expendable. The reputed trainer of the ludus was not. Submitting, he resumed his pace. Soon, he was standing in front of the wooden door. He noticed Doctore behind him, at a calculated distance.

Never had Ashur been so accurate in his thoughts.

Spartacus' room was empty. At the perfectly calculated distance to crack his whip, Doctore's weapon held firm grasp of his neck, suddenly cutting the air. Doctore pulled his arm backwards, making Ashur leap backwards, landing with a heavy thud on the floor. Loosening the whip just enough to prevent the Syrian from dying too soon, he grabbed him by the shirt and lifted him in one swift movement. "I made a promise, Ashur. And I always keep my word."

The whip tensed again around his neck. Ashur felt the pressure in his eyes, closing his eyelids by fear of them popping out of their sockets.

Then everything froze.

Dominus' voice was heard approaching. Calling Doctore.

_**OOO**_

It had not been long, but it seemed like a lifetime together.

Naevia sat by Crixus' side, not letting her sight part from the man, again plunged into unconsciousness. The bandages binding the wrists were partially stained in crimson, yet the bleeding had receded significantly, as well as that from the wound below; upon her arrival, Naevia had examined it, following Doctore's directions. The injury appeared clean, with no sign of rotting. She felt grateful, yet, thanking the Gods did not seem appropriate anymore. At least to the Gods she had known in her life, the omnipotent beings to whom Domina prayed daily, listened only to the Romans. But Naevia had suckled faith to Gods. It was imprinted in her, as the necessity to breathe. And so she prayed. To a God she hoped existed, who had ears for the slaves.

Resolved, she closed her eyes and let her whispering pleas reach it. Alone there Naevia found solace despite the madness surrounding them. The absence of comfort and luxury in the room created a somewhat purer space, filled only with their presence, with the sound of their breathing and, as she placed her hand on his chest, the beating of his heart.

There was peace.

There was love.

There was hope.

"Doctore!"

And then, all disappeared. Peace, love and hope shattered like a jar of clay.

Naevia's breathing caught with his voice, and she froze, very quiet and very still, suddenly afraid to move were she to make the slightest sound.

Dominus' voice called Doctore.

Naevia tensed, and all her fears returned like thunder.

Ears sharp, she heard his steps approaching, knowing there was only one place he would go.

Where she was.

Naevia looked at Crixus one last time. There had been no divine ears listening. Crixus and her had lived in borrowed time, and that dream was over.

"Doctore!"

But she would not let the man who had condemned them to claim his victory. That he would not see.

Naevia gripped the knife with firm hand, and directed the point towards her breast.

She had been born a slave, yet if she had to die, it would be by her own hands, and at her love's side. The thought of Crixus living gave her strength and comfort. Determined, Naevia took a cloak resting on a bench and covered Crixus, hoping his faint breathing would be concealed by the cloth. Sharing one last look at his form, Naevia stood facing the door, awaiting for it to be open by the man, awaiting to see his grimace of hate towards her, thinking that she would look him in the eye, as she had to Domina before leaving; of how, then, before he could reach her, she would plunge the blade into her heart.

The deafening silence became suffocating, broken by the sound of his steps approaching. Her hand unconsciously started to push the knife against her skin. A drop of blood made its way through.

She waited.

Until the door opened.

_**OOO**_

Ashur took advance of the momentary distraction Dominus' voice had caused and hit Doctore on his shin with all his might, using the edge of the metal supporting his crippled leg, distraction enough for the Syrian to take hold of the whip and get some air, struggling to grab the blade that had fallen from his hand the moment he had been caught by the whip.

But Oenomaus was swift in his reaction, and with a firm grasp, reached the wrists and pressed until he could feel the bone cracking, covering Ashur's mouth to prevent the Syrian to cry for help as he resumed the pressure on his neck.

"Doctore!"

Oenomaus looked towards the direction he guessed Batiatus was approaching, and pressed harder the whip, his mind cursing Ashur and his refusal to die without condemning them all.

His thoughts traveled to Naevia and Crixus. They were, without doubt, hearing the voice too.

Ashur fought. He kicked, he tried to blind him with desperate fingers, he slapped him. Did everything. But Doctore had made a promise.

And Doctore was a man of his word.

Ashur was the hand behind Barca's death.

Ashur would pay with the same coin.

The whip clutched tighter one last time before loosening itself like a serpent after the kill.

Finally, the rat fell limp on the ground.

"Doctore!"

Losing no time, the trainer rushed out of the room towards the corridors that held the rest of gladiators before he reached his own room. Too close.

"Is it now that all fucking gladiators ignore me that I have to fucking wait until you see fit raising from bed?," Batiatus barked.

"Apologies, Dominus, my mind was absent in prayer."

"You speak to your Gods with one ear in this world, or you have none."

"Of course. It will not happen again." Oenomaus wished those words were meant beyond his expectations. And ventured to advance Batiatus in the business bringing his master to the insides of the ludus at that late hour. "Crixus was brought dead."

"The former champion of Capua and his heir, resolved to fuck me under my own roof. How is it that a gladiator disobeys my orders and I am not informed but by Ashur? If a gladiator rebels, fucking Doctore drags his ass to my presence like a loyal dog and tells me that a fucking gladiator has acted against my will!"

"It will not happen again."

"You bet your fucking ass it won't, or you will be the one paying for their mistakes." He let a moment pass and lowered the aggressive tone in his voice.

"What of Crixus? Where's his body?"

Oenomaus was quick to respond. "I gave him proper burial," he said with an apologizing tone. "Yet if you command-"

"No." His tone calmed down slightly. "I know you had affection for the Gaul. I will let this pass. But no fucking honors for him on the sand. Understood?"

"Yes, Dominus."

"Spartacus will be slashed tomorrow at dawn. See it done," he said. He saw Doctore nod curtly. "Doctore." He looked him in the eye. "Do not disappoint me again."

In another time, those words would have hurt him.

Now they bore no meaning.

Then his concern brought him back to Naevia, and as soon as Batiatus was gone from sight, he rushed to the door.

He found her standing, still as a rock, breathing hard, looking with horror, yet not seeing, and a knife pressed on her chest.

The vision of the blade and the thin rivulet of blood down her breast prompted him towards her in a stride, grabbing the knife gently yet firmly. "Naevia." He slowly parted the knife from her body, opening her hand with some effort.

Her eyes were still on the door, and he understood.

Naevia had lived all her life inside the villa, by Domina's side, a woman equal to her husband in skill and cunning. If there was a person inside the ludus who truly knew those who ran it, who knew of their brutality, that was Naevia.

"He is gone," he softly said, forcing her to look at him and making sure she saw a gentle and caring face.

Finally she looked.

"Dominus is gone. You are safe."

_**OOO**_

Returning to the house, intending to see his wife, Batiatus stopped at one of his slaves awaiting him with a man at the door. With a closer look, he recognized in the man one of Ilithyia's guards.

"Jupiter's cock," he muttered tiredly, "will my life not leave me alone this day?"

Regaining composure, he walked towards them, yet not bothering to fake a welcoming face. "What brings you to this house at such hour?"

The guard extended his hand and gave him the note. "From the Legatus," he simply said.

Instantly changing his attitude, Batiatus nodded and took it, placing a warm hand on the soldier's back. "It is late, have my slave accompany you and take residence in my humble house tonight." With a sign of his head, the slave took the order and left with the Roman.

Excitedly, Batiatus opened the parchment, hoping to bring Lucretia good news to cheer her spirits.

His face quickly turned into a much serious expression, immediately filled with anger, spitting words through gritted teeth. "That...fucking Ilithyia!"

She had played them, taken them for fools, using one against the other. Suddenly it all appeared before the eyes of his mind. She had almost caused a rift between Lucretia and him, and as a result, his wife lay injured. Within the same strike, she had blinded him enough to have one of his best gladiators killed.

And now she was on her way to Rome, if she was not already there, at a safe distance, surely having planned for the message to reach his hands not a moment before. The message that delivered Glaber's intention of not granting them his patronage.

If the Gods had chosen to fuck with him, he would fuck with the Gods himself. Ruminating his vengeance, he walked towards their room.

_**OOO**_

Once Oenomaus made certain Naevia was calmed, he walked out towards Spartacus' cell before the Thracian found Ashur's body. Spartacus saw him first.

"A word, Doctore," he pleaded. The trainer nodded. "I have been by the wine cellar, yet no slave has come as they usually do. I promised Crixus I would look for Naevia, yet I cannot even find ears to demand Mira's presence."

"Neither will you this night," he responded.

"I made a promise," he said stubbornly.

"You may still keep it. Naevia rests with Crixus in my room," he said. Then his voice took a turn into more somber matters. "You are to be slashed, tomorrow at dawn." Oenomaus studied his reaction. Spartacus nodded calmly, no sign of distress reflected in his face. "You knew this would happen."

A nod. "Only if I was the man taking the blame."

"Dominus does not attend to reason when fortune reverses him. He could have ordered your death."

"Batiatus listens to the sound of coins as they fall from his purse and bounce on the floor. He would not see his winnings fall short by pride. He needs his champion."

"They say the Gods favor you."

"Do not believe such thing."

"Pray it is true. You do not have time to recover from your wounds."

"We cannot-"

"Ashur lies dead in your chamber, and Dominus surely awaits him returned bearing news of Naevia's death. I convinced Dominus of Crixus' passing, but it will not be long until the Syrian starts rotting, or a guard passes through the cell. It ends tomorrow at dawn, Spartacus. One way or the other."

Silence. Then a curt nod.

"Then I will have Agron pass word of my feat tonight."

_**OOO**_

Batiatus sought calm, a moment of peace with his wife. To lay on their bed, idly stroking her hair while they shared some trivial talk, receiving a loving look and getting lost in their necking.

But he had been deprived of it, and instead, Lucretia had been wounded, and he feared she was starting to run a fever. Tired by a very long day, Batiatus planned to at least share a few moments with her. He walked into the room silently, signaling for the slave Mira and the midwife to exit the room as he approached the silent figure resting on their bed.

A slight relief came as he saw her, seemingly asleep. At least one of them should know calm, and she had suffered enough. He doubted that, in her prior state of shock, Lucretia had heard the medicus' words speaking of the death of her child. A part of him had been glad of such outcome, yet not through Lucretia's suffering.

Sitting beside her, he gently touched her face, frowning when he noticed she was slightly warm. He dared not, however, to check the wound, afraid of hurting her.

Tired, with no strength left, he leaned down, touching her forehead with his, whispering an apology. "I'm so sorry, Lucretia."

Then, she shifted slightly, making Batiatus move back, soon seeing her eyes slowly opening against exhaustion. "Quintus." Her voice, too, was a whisper.

Batiatus promptly changed positions and sat on her side so she could see him without having to move her head into an uncomfortable position. "Speak not, Lucretia. You need to rest."

Yet her face was framed in a frown of concern. "I can't when I see my husband full of worry."

Injured, possibly starting to fight a fever, and yet Lucretia would look out for him. Batiatus' heart slowly broke into pieces. "Apologies for giving you distress. Worry not, Lucretia, I beg of you."

"Lie with me?," she pleaded.

Batiatus in a reflex examined the bed. It was theirs, there was space for him, yet he did not want to cause any discomfort. He had planned to keep vigil sitting at her side. "I should not, Lucretia, you...I do not want to hurt you." _I do not want to hurt you any further than I already have._

"It hurts me more to see you this way. Please, Quintus, if only for a few moments."

Batiatus obliged. Slowly and carefully, meticulously measuring every movement, he sat and then laid down turning on his side to look at her, now smiling content, a short relief apparently found by his closeness. "I am sorry, Lucretia," he whispered again.

She opened her eyes and turned her head. She smiled, with that warm and kind smile built from love, a love he was unsure he deserved at that very moment. "It was not your fault," she tiredly said.

The words did not escape him. Her hand had moved to rest on her belly as she had spoken.

She knew.

"If I had done things differently, I-"

"It was the Gods' will, it wasn't in our hands," she insisted, lying. "This child was our hope to see that we can make it happen." Her face lit with her words. "It can happen, Quintus. Believe it."

He wanted. He yearned to believe. Yet there were other grim circumstances that would not arise his spirits, and he had the urge to share them with his wife, as he always did.

As if reading his thoughts, she spoke. "Something troubles you." It was not a question, and she was not talking about the child, or her health. She had seen the look in his eyes, which opened clear to her as days without clouds.

Quintus closed his eyes hiding a mixture of defeat and rage he wished not to display in front of her at that moment.

"Quintus."

He let out a sigh. "We were betrayed, Lucretia," he finally confessed. His wife's eyes opened wide despite her condition, looking at him apprehensively. "It seems Glaber never intended to grant us favor, and Ilithyia stalled the news until she was gone from the house."

Lucretia sighed saddened by the effect such news caused him.

"Her treachery will not go unpunished, Lucretia," he said in an attempt to calm her.

She looked at him, her voice low, yet strong. "No, it won't."

"It was not your fault, Lucretia, do not carry the responsibility on your shoulders." Batiatus, gently, cupped her face with his hand. "Don't," he pleaded.

With some effort, Lucretia took his hand towards her mouth and kissed it, then closed her eyes again and winced from a sudden sting from the wound.

The grimace made Batiatus react, reigniting his concern. "Are you unwell, should I call for the medicus?" He placed his hand again against her skin. She was still warm.

"No. Just...," Lucretia sighed again. "I share your concerns, Quintus."

"I should have kept that one unveiled," he added, silently cursing himself for being so weak.

"More secrets would do us no good, Quintus," she said. Lucretia managed a smile for her husband. "Worry not, I am just tired."

"Perhaps I should leave you for now, let you rest and see if your fever breaks."

"Your presence soothes my spirit."

Despite his own desire to follow her words and simply abide, Batiatus, sat up again and kissed her, whispering his words on her ear. "I will remain close. Rest now, I will have a slave come."

"Send Mira," she said suddenly. "She serves well."

Nodding, Batiatus turned and exited the room, leaving Lucretia alone with her thoughts, centered now in one name.

Ilithyia was a wild beast under the façade of a delicate patrician, and regarded as such by most. But Lucretia had seen the animal beneath, relishing flesh, and blood.

And she had managed to place a collar around her neck. For a while.

You cannot leash the wildness and pretend to tame it unscathed. Lucretia had learnt that lesson far too late.

No. She could not control her.

Lucretia had always had an outstanding innate ability to place judgment on people, hardly ever failing. One of the qualities that had attracted Quintus towards her. A good judge on human nature, he said, proud. Very few times had she been wrong on someone.

Ilithyia being one of those rare mistakes.

And a fatal one, indeed.

But on the brink of death, beaten animals could still deliver fatal blows.

And she was not dead, nor she would allow such fate to come before she saw the daughter of senator Albinius fall.

Weakened by the wound, Lucretia left the pain on the back of her mind and clutched the hidden note in her hand while she waited for the slave to come, focusing all her will on having those written words delivered to their rightful owner.

Ilithyia's husband.

Shortly after, Mira entered the room.

Mira had been one of the slave girls with whom Lucretia had enjoyed the most imposing her power. Most girls, terrified by the misfortunes that had led them to slavery, were easy to break, but not her. She had come, hard as stone, impassive, yet with fire in her eyes. There was a scent of dignity in the slave that, despite her status, she refused to give up.

"Approach," commanded Lucretia.

Mira obeyed and Lucretia, still fighting the throbbing sensation from her belly, extended her hand with the parchment she had written before, wanting to take vengeance on Ilithyia, a note now bearing much more meaning. "Take it."

Mira grabbed it and followed command, yet her mind boiled with thoughts of other nature, far from Domina's commands. Of the reason of her being here and Naevia's absence. She had heard some rumors from the midwife recounting Domina's wound and its fatal consequences, woven in some senseless story of love, hatred and jealousy.

She knew Naevia. She was not capable of taking a life, neither attempting against one.

"I know you have skills," said suddenly Lucretia as the slave took her written words. "You managed to find Varro's wife."

Mira froze, granting Lucretia a reason for amusement. And controlling the slave further. "No slave crosses the gats of this ludus unnoticed. Are you so stupid to think that you can?"

Mira swallowed and looked down. "No, Domina."

Being abruptly reminded of Lucretia's power, Mira's fear for Naevia grew more intense.

"Use that skill again, yet this time take it further. Make sure the message travels its way to Rome, into the hands of Legatus Claudius Glaber."

Mira stood silent, still frozen, looking at the small sealed parchment in her hands.

Lucretia, ignoring the slave's pensive and hesitating behavior dismissed her with one last command. "Tell no one, and take no longer than three days in your task, or the only thing returning to this ludus will be your head, parted from its body. Go."

"Yes, Domina."

Mira left, and rushed her pace as soon as she was out of Domina's eyes. She had to find Spartacus, tell him about Naevia. If there was a chance to save her, she would do.

She had been commanded out of the ludus, and knew her mission demanded discretion. Legatus Glaber was the husband of the woman named Ilithyia, that much she knew. And she was aware of the ties between the man and Spartacus. If the contents of the parchment plotted against him, she had to know.

Determined, Mira carefully broke the seal and read the short and measured note. It spoke of a horrible treason, of a murder committed by his own wife. She read the name of the victim, related to a man called Marcus Licinius Crassus, as the note read. She remembered her. A slender young woman, swelling with richness. She had been wearing the mask chosen by her.

Domina sought the destruction of the wife of the legatus. The woman who had hurt Spartacus beyond his own knowing. But was it wise to let this note reach its destination? To spread Domina's destructive ways?

Pondering, Mira left towards the gladiator's area, her concern for Naevia coming first.

_**OOO**_

Spartacus sat on the bench, of his cell. Listlessly, he spared a look for the lifeless body of Ashur, silently thankful for not having placed his blind trust on the Syrian, his betrayal on Barca now revealed.

Spartacus thought about the upcoming events. Agron had been given instructions to spread their deed concerning Crixus. Attaining every gladiator's trust in just one night was far-fetched, yet it was his only chance.

He also bore thought for the rest of the slaves. The youngest he had known being ill-fated Pietros, there were no children inside the ludus to think of, and he felt grateful for that.

Children.

He had dreamed, once, of having children with her. Now it seemed another lifetime.

_**OO**_

_His union with Sura had nurtured in him a new need of assuring her safety. Now, every night before joining her in their bed, he circled the surroundings seeking any potential danger that could catch them by surprise. _

_Smiling at the prospect of yet another night by her side, he finally entered their tent, left his cloak on the floor and laid with her, sliding his arm under her waist, letting her nestle into his body. Letting out a content breath, he set his face against her back inhaling her scent, a smile already set on his face with no intention of leaving. Soon, his body shifted to more subtle and intense caresses. Upon his first kiss, Sura stopped him._

_"Not tonight," she said as she turned her head to look at her husband._

_He returned the look, slightly amused yet with a hint of disappointment._

_An eyebrow arched, silently reminding him of the conversation had hours before, turning his smile into a rueful one._

_"I am serious," she warned, taking the intruding hand away from her thigh._

_"I could...retreat," he said plucking a chuckle out of her, "before."_

_Sura turned on her back to look at him. His light laugh quieted into the warmest of smiles, kissing her hand as it traveled through his face. Gently, he reciprocated the gesture, sealing the action with tender kisses. "I wish I had never shared the idea of waiting to have a child."_

_"I tend to think it was a wise thought. That I already carried within when you spoke it. And you know it."_

_"This life of...danger, is all I have known, Sura. I used to think it was not a place to bring a new life. What would a child know in this world?"_

_"It would-"_

_Her voice was silenced by his hand. "I had not finished," he said softly. Sura regarded his face. It bore one of the sides she loved and respected more about him. Her husband was known in the village for many reasons. A good fighter and clear-headed strategist by men, a selfish scoundrel by most women he had laid with, a troublesome boy in his youth. _

_But that innocent, shy and almost vulnerable look, that was something he would only share with her. And that side of him was the strongest reason to love about the man._

_Lost in that look, Sura listened attentive to her husband's words._

_"With you. What I feel now, it's...," he paused, trying to find the words, "how can I deny a life the right to know this?" _

_Sura melted in the private moment shared only with her. "The Getae won't attack forever-"_

_"The Getae will not stop until they are all killed," he softly but firmly said._

_That had been their talk that day. She knew if she made love, seed would probably root, and the menace of the Dacian tribes in the surrounding lands made her fear it being to soon to try. _

_Him, eager to start a family with her, disregarded reality, often with levity, and it had taken all of Sura's determination to make him agree with his own thoughts._

_**OO**_

Spartacus sighed as the memory ended. Now it was hard to keep those remembrances vivid in his mind. Sura was within. He was partly the man he was today because of her. But that life. It felt like a dream, a distant memory, slowly fading.

That life would not return. Maybe in the Underworld, if such place existed. But it would have to wait, as much as he wanted to have Sura in his arms again. In the passing of time, he had come to an understanding of another reality, one bearing a bigger meaning. First he had been driven by vengeance and hope. Sura dead, he had lost his way. Then, learning of Batiatus ordering her death, vengeance had returned, but to a changed man. Now the meaning was broader. Now it was not one man alone with his feelings. It was a sense of belonging, an acknowledgement of what justice meant.

No child deserved to live like that, nor man, nor woman. He would take revenge for Sura's death, yes, but now with a greater meaning behind. Freedom. He would show Rome where its might truly resided, and what would happen when those foundations turned against it.

Soon it would be dawn, and his fate sealed. He would make sure to be outside before the guards came to take him. It would all end in a few hours.

It would all start in a few hours.

Spartacus closed his eyes and smiled. Sura would be proud.

A sudden gasp jerked him out of his quiet moment, taking a defensive position in pure reflex, only relaxing when he saw it was Mira, holding the door, standing still and horrified by the sight of Ashur's body.

Spartacus quickly urged Mira inside, quickly closing the door behind her. "It's all right. By the time they discover him it will be too late."

Mira looked at him in bewilderment, still reeling from the vision.

"It ends at dawn," he said. "Will you help?"

Mira tried to order her thoughts, and managed to speak of her prime concern. "I need to find Naevia."

Spartacus stood up and placed warm hands on her shoulder, still using a soothing tone. "Naevia is safe for now, she rests with Crixus in Doctore's room. Ashur was commanded by Dominus to kill her. Doctore found him first."

"Domina, she..." Mira's face reflected revulsion over the events she spoke of.

"She has claimed Naevia had tried to kill both her and her child."

A pained expression crossed Spartacus' face. His mind shoved personal memories away.

"A knife cut through her belly. She lost it."

He knew hardly a thing about the woman married to Batiatus. Only moments crossing their paths, and the commands he had received from her when he was ordered to bed the Roman woman. Now he also suspected her hatred towards him came from him having replaced Crixus as Batiatus' and Capua's favored gladiator. Still, the woman was no fool, and knowing he was the source of the recent richness filling their purses, she had kept a prudent distance. The wife of Batiatus was a woman of presence, powerful and an equal at the eyes of her husband. In a manner, a twisted manner he wished not to consider, she was like Sura. But only on a superficial layer. Inside, she was rotten by the world she lived in.

Mira turned to leave, stopping a second, her hands reaching for the note she still kept carrying news she still pondered whether to let him know or not. She was interrupted.

"Mira."

Words unspoken, she confirmed she would help.

"Gratitude."

Did he deserve to know more pain and treason? Would it really matter to him who had killed Varro? Was it really important to share with Spartacus the news Domina wanted delivered to the man who had brought him into slavery?

Maybe some day. But more important things would happen in the upcoming hours. Mira resolved to leave the possible future aside, and silently left the room.

_**OOO**_

Consciousness greeted him with pain and his trained senses rapidly assessed the damage. His legs felt numb, he could not flex his hands, and the throbbing pain in his groin persisted. Weakened through his wounds, he moved his head to see where he was, immediately stooped by two hands whose touch he would recognize with eyes closed. He sought and soon found her face, smiling yet stained with tears.

"A kiss," he pleaded in an exhausted whisper. Naevia obliged willingly, kissing his lips softly, deepening it only when he returned it.

"I thought I'd lost you."

Her voice still carried the fear of the prior moments, and noticing it, Crixus raised his hands so he could comfort her. Naevia, focused on his face, had not seen the movement until he winced in pain, reacting and gently but firmly taking his hand back to its rest.

"Where are we?"

"Doctore has sheltered us."

Reality hit both. The first joy was soon replaced by grimness. "You cannot stay here for long."

"You can't move, Crixus, we have to wait."

"Not we, Naevia."

Her answer was clear. "I am not leaving without you."

"Naevia-"

"No."

"Return to Domina, await," he pleaded.

Sometimes Crixus spoke without thought sustaining his words. He knew that, and only realized of the mistake when he saw her face: Domina knew. His eyes suddenly searched in her body any sign of injury that she might be concealing. "Did she...?"

She shook her head. "No." She looked at him, both with sadness and sympathy. "She hurt herself. She killed the child and placed the blame on my head. I escaped. I'm...I'm sorry, Crixus."

Naevia's compassion was something difficult for him to comprehend. Domina was a woman who had done nothing but using them both, and yet Naevia's words hinted no hate, and felt sadness for a creature that was not theirs. That he never considered his.

Her look towards his main wound gave way to her words. "It was the only child you would have."

"He would have been raised as a Roman. He would have treated you as a slave. Not mine, Naevia. Never mine." He tried to make her understand, even if his words were insufficient in their meaning. "I do not care about children if I cannot share it with you."

And now he would never do. With effort but sternly ignoring the pain, he raised his arm and encircled Naevia with it, feeling relief in the contact.

They were interrupted by the sound of the door slowly opening, revealing Mira. The slave sighed and smiled to see that Spartacus words regarding Naevia's safety were true. "Spartacus is doing it at dawn. Two men will be guarding this chamber," she informed them.

"Has the Thracian gone out of his fucking mind?," asked Crixus upon the news.

"Spartacus is to be slashed at dawn, and Ashur's body, commanded to kill Naevia, lies dead in his room." Crixus fell silent. "A day longer would also uncover your hiding," she added.

Naevia addressed Mira. "What can I do to help?"

"Do you still have the key?"

_**OOO**_

The night was soon to end. Oenomaus walked one last time on the sands of training. It was going to happen. Whether they would go through those gates as free men or thrown down the hill as corpses, fate had been set in motion.

He turned then to the sound of steps approaching, his eyes showing Agron, walking with a smile, courtesy of his youth, Oenomaus mused.

"I spread word that Spartacus had freed Crixus from the cross and their faces changed, just like he had predicted."

"And the plan?"

"Most of them have been fucked by the guards at one point. They hate the place and Dominus with it. They agreed."

How could it be that for three generations, as he had been told, there had been no revolt in this ludus and one could be woven in just one night and with prospects of success?

His question was answered, and in a completely unexpected way.

"I told the men you would lead them."

Oenomaus looked at the German, unsure of having heard right. "What?"

"I suggested the idea to Spartacus and he agreed. The men have a new respect for him, yet I am not sure how loyal they are to him. To you they are. They see you as the man to lead us to freedom"

Freedom. His mouth filled with the word. Still. "This madness came to life from Spartacus."

"If Spartacus is to lead us all, it will not be a reward gained in a few hours, Doctore," he said with respect. "I might be young, new to this world of fighting for others' amusement. But I have eyes. And I know there is no single gladiator who will not follow you to the underworld. Spartacus has gained respect, but nothing more, I'm no fool, and neither is he. He will set apart if he must. And in this battle, he will rise as the champion. But not before."

Both men shared a look. Oenomaus looked at Agron in a new light. The German was honest in his words, and thought them more than he would have guessed.

"This is the path to ensure my brother's life," he simply said. "We all have our reasons to risk our lives. Wives, dreams, family, vengeance. Ask anyone. There is a past in all of us."

"You seem to have more than the mere desire to free your brother."

"Like I said, I have eyes. Spartacus seems to be the only one with some sort of...cause beyond himself. He lost everything, as have we all, but he had a personal reason to take revenge. And he could have done so disregarding the rest of us. Instead he is risking his life for all. And when the time comes for every gladiator to see that truth, Spartacus will become the greatest among us."

Oenomaus listened, and knew inside that Agron's passionate foretelling encased more truth that the German probably realized. He placed a confident hand on the gladiator's shoulder and nodded once.

"Go now, dawn is near. You know what to do."

As Agron turned to leave, another door opened and a lonely figure approached the trainer.

Spartacus stopped by his side and looked towards the point in horizon from where he knew the sun would rise, Doctore's eyes were set on the same place.

"It is early."

"If guards come to take me, I would not have them finding Ashur."

Oenomaus nodded in silence. "Mira came to me last night."

"I know," Spartacus said. "Agron?"

"Claims they are ready."

"Is he certain?"

"Not of their faith in you. Yet you have gained their respect."

Spartacus received the words. "But they would follow you."

"Yes."

"Good."

"You do not wish glory."

"Glory is a fleeting concept, used by Romans to enslave us after they taint with their poisonous tongues the concept of honor."

Agron's words still echoed in Oenomaus's mind. "Moons ago, when you were brought here, you refused to fight."

"And found the ground by your whip."

"Then promise of reuniting with your wife changed everything."

Spartacus spared a silent memory for Sura before answering. "Sura was everything that held meaning and beauty in this world for me."

"And you lost her."

"And with her, myself."

"What has changed? You learned the truth, yet revenge is not all that steers you now. There will be blood spilled, but also promise of crossing that gate to freedom."

"I returned to who I really was. I came to terms with the man Sura always saw, even beyond my own blindness."

"She seems a woman with a clear mind."

"And I love her enough to be willing to listen, even if late," he sadly added. "Sura claimed the Gods talked to her. I never believed in them. I still don't."

"But your wife-"

"It is my wife who I believe in," Spartacus said. "I do not question their existence. I question their importance in our lives. They might exist, but we are the ones who name them. My Gods are the same as those of the Romans, only with different names, because the Romans decided so. And the Gods seemed to agree. Yours have different names too." Doctore nodded. "I heard once of a religion that speaks of one God. They followed him with complete faith and devotion. It made them strong. It made them feel part of something. Feel as one. They had powerful kings, and richness."

Oenomaus had heard of that religion. Ashur had spoken of it one day soon after receiving the crippling wounds that ended his path on the sands. The gash still open, and the burns on his arm still eating the flesh, inebriated by the wine given to numb the pain, he had cursed his parents' God.

"That God is something bigger than them, and it seemed to have a plan beyond their understanding. One being giving force to a whole group of people. Just because there is a plan for them."

"You hope to achieve what one God has because there is something beyond our freedom?."

"I do not wish to be compared to a God," he sentenced. Then, he finished speaking his thoughts. "One day I questioned Sura about this one strong God. I asked her what was the point in having faith in Gods that changed names and could be beaten by others, more powerful."

"What did she say?"

Spartacus smiled with the memory. "That it was our foolishness to place them higher than they were or confronting them. That she believed in them because their words had meaning, and bore truth. And they had told her I was to do great things, and I was the fool not seeing it."

Oenomaus pondered in silence. "Perhaps she was right."

Immersed in his past, Spartacus shared the end of the conversation. "Then she fell silent in thought. She did that frequently; raising my concern, for many times their words brought bad dreams to her. When I asked her if it had been the Gods again she shook her head. She had been thinking of that One God I had spoken of. Of what would happen if people's faith changed to such being. Like Rome. United by one God, she wondered what kind of sway the Republic would hold over the world."

"Rome loves its Gods. It will not turn its back on them for just one. It makes no sense."

"I have come to learn that Rome would do anything to attain power. Even denying its own Gods. But enough of Rome. This gladiators do not need a God. They need a mad Thracian and the one they can trust."

"Not all see that purpose you talk about. You insist that the men will follow me," said Oenomaus. "What of the women? Will they abandon the shelter of these walls to the unknown? To starvation?"

"I would rather starve than eat one more single crumb of their bread."

"You, maybe. Me. Even the rest of gladiators. But what of the women?"

Spartacus eyed him refusing to give up his confidence in the plan. "Mira and Naevia will follow, why would the rest be different?"

"You have not lived enough as a slave, you wouldn't understand."

"How about Naevia and Mira?," he insisted. "They came to this house before me and yet they are willing to do whatever is necessary."

"They are different."

"Why? Naevia may have Crixus to fight, but-"

"Naevia was born in this ludus. Privileged by Domina. Her life as a slave has been different than others slaves of the house but slavery is all she knows. She is driven by her passion for Crixus. Name one slave that has such position."

"What of Mira?"

Oenomaus eyed him with some surprise. Spartacus knew of Mira's feelings towards him. He wondered if the Thracian was trying to find out more about her. "Mira might be a slave, but a unique one," he said. His face turned somber, lost in a memory.

Spartacus sensed curiosity building inside. He had learned that Mira was no woman to hide her feelings, yet she served well and seemed to behave accordingly. She also willed to risk herself for others. Or at least for him. "Mira can convince them," he finally sentenced.

Oenomaus cut him. "You use a woman whose trust you do not deserve." The truth made Spartacus fall silent. "Mira was free once," continued Doctore in his even yet severe tone. "She had a life. She had love. A child. And her husband was killed.

"The child?" The question fell from his lips.

"The baby died on the journey to Brindisi, where the prisoners were bound, all to be sold to slavery.

"How do you know?"

"Dominus also bought a man who traveled with her to be trained as a gladiator. He told me how she seemed to die inside after the Romans threw the dead child to the waters of the sea. How they forced themselves on her; how they suckled her breasts claiming to help her get rid of the milk before it rotted inside. She rebelled and they beat her. But no man in that ship saw her cry."

Spartacus listened in silent, feeling a sting for the way he had treated Mira, and how his obnoxiousness had not been returned with equal coin.

"She knows what is to lose everything, Spartacus, more than you. Even more than you," he remarked.

"I have always been honest. with her about my feelings."

"In your lack of feelings."

"I cannot love another woman," Spartacus said quietly.

"But you can earn her respect and allow her friendship."

_**OOO**_

Batiatus had not slept, his mind and insides set on Lucretia and the events that surrounded them. Glaber's treason, Spartacus' bold disobedience...Now Calavius' words the night of his son's birthday burned deeper.

Lucretia had rested for a few hours, yet the fever remained, now slightly higher, increasing his concern. Unable to take rest, he had sat by her side, careful not to wake her. Now, close to dawn, he slowly left the corner he had allowed himself to occupy on the bed to not disturb Lucretia yet remain close. At that same moment, she stirred, drawing his attention back to her.

Lucretia opened her eyes and eyed her husband. Taking notice on the early hour, her look and voice took a protesting tone. "It's early. You should be resting."

"So should you," he reminded, sitting back. Now Lucretia took her time to examine her husband.

"Quintus, you have not even changed clothes. Have you not slept?"

"Sleep would not come," he confessed. "I spent the night mesmerized in my wife instead."

"And giving her reason to concern." She sighed. "It's written in your face, Quintus." He said nothing, only took her hand. "I already feel better. Stronger," she lied. "By the end of the day I will be giving you reason to smile."

Batiatus knew her condition had worsened slightly, yet opted to keep her same positive spirits. Maybe they would help her recover. "Then, by the end of the day," he said stroking her face, "when I see you, I will smile, slid under the covers and find sleep and peace in your embrace." He managed a smile.

"You promise?"

"I promise." Then, carefully, he turned slightly the covers. The bandages were clean. He breathed. Yet he remembered the medicus' words regarding fever. Tentatively, he placed his hand on the belly. Again it was her the source of comfort. She looked at him. "It will happen, Quintus."

Resolute to keep her spirits up, he smiled. "I was divining," he said, daring to dream. "A boy. With his mother's eyes and strength."

"And sharing her love for her husband, his father."

"His loving father," he corrected. Inflated with a new hope, he kissed her before leaving. "Rest now, Lucretia."

"I love you."

"Not in a thousand lives would I ever find a woman like you."

With one last kiss, Batiatus left the room, and before heading to the balcony to witness the slashing, he sent a slave to fetch the medicus.

_**OOO**_

Mira stepped outside, finding Doctore and Spartacus already there. It was almost dawn, and soon the guards would come to take him.

She had not slept, her nerves keeping her awake, a returned feeling she had thought lost, suddenly back inside her. To feel alive. Some scars would never heal, but this will to live had reawakened from its slumber.

Both men saw her approaching. They seemed pensive, and something else radiated from Spartacus. He would not eye her in indifference. More with a mixture of interest and...Mira tried to find the word. But it could not be.

_Compassion?_

_No. Definitely not. _

She knew she had not much time, so her words were brief and direct. "I have the key. The rest are ready."

Oenomaus nodded. "I will set the poles."

Both men shared a look and Doctore left. Spartacus closed his eyes and breathed the morning, fresh air. The ambience felt damp.

"It looks like the skies will open again, bringer of rain," she said in that hesitant tone she had learned to use in front of him, never knowing if his response would be one of acceptance or rejection. "Last time you made yourself a legend. Maybe it's a good omen."

"A legend," he said repeating her words. "I am not such thing."

He spoke the words without intended meaning, just stating a fact. Yet once again he did not measure the tone, undeserving of her gentle intention. Sura used to tease him for being so stubbornly deaf to what he wished not to hear. She was right. "Apologies. I did not mean to offend."

Mira did not respond. "I shall go, make certain everything is in order," she simply said and as she turned to leave, they saw two guards approaching.

Spartacus caught a spark of fear in her eyes. "Mira." She stopped and turned. "I do not believe in Gods or legends. But I do feel grateful for having you, as a friend," he said hoping she would find truth in his words. "If you would have me as such." He spoke with all the honesty he knew inside him, a man he had long ago buried, suddenly resurfacing.

Mira smiled, and the result was a smug one. So familiar to him that he was shocked by the warmth of it. "This time the rain will make the legend."

Close enough to listen, the two guards heard a chuckle, and found the Thracian smiling.

_**OOO**_

As soon as Mira entered the gladiator area, she rushed towards Doctore's room. Entering, she saw Naevia sitting by a sleeping Crixus.

"How is he?"

"Weak," said Naevia. "But there is no sign of fever."

"Be not concerned. Two gladiators and the medicus will remain behind for you."

The night had been long and difficult for Crixus, and all the emotions had taken a toll on the young woman. "I'm scared, Mira," she confessed.

And Mira smiled. "You are finally alive, my friend."

Mira took the knife, kissed her friend and left.

_**OOO**_

Spartacus was bound with ropes to the poles. He studied the guards as they tied him up. They did not seem to expect him to have any strength left after being slashed, for the ropes were not tight enough. That would ease Doctore's task.

Then his eyes studied his surroundings.

Eight guards in front of the lined up gladiators. Easy to kill, with their backs on the gladiators they would fall without casualties. Then he looked up. Two more guarding Batiatus in the balcony. That left the rest inside the house. Eight swords at hand's reach still gave the remaining guards time to prepare for defense, but the gladiators were fast. Those unarmed were to fetch the weapons left unsecured by Doctore. He looked to his left. The gates were closed, yet soon Mira would open them. There was one guard posted, a man he knew very well. The burnt skin still displayed red and swollen.

He would have the key returned, yet not in the way he would ever expect.

The slaves inside the house had not been warned. Hopefully, they would follow, but with no training in fighting, they would serve to no purpose during the attack. He hoped the women followed too.

Doctore approached, and appeared to check the ropes around the wrists, skillfully loosening them enough for his hands to slip away when the time came.

"If I do not make it-"

"You will bear the first blows without difficulty. Mira will open the gates in time."

Spartacus insisted. "Lead them."

"Where?"

"South. Varro spoke once of Pomeii. There is a mountain guarding the city. It can serve to make camp and defend ourselves."

"I will command the gladiators here, Spartacus. But outside this walls?" He shook his head. "You are the man who still remembers how to be free. I control gladiators. There is no certainty of what these men will become once they gain freedom."

"Doctore!"

Both men raised their heads. Batiatus gave the order. No speech this time. Doctore nodded and separated from Spartacus.

The first slash drew a single cry. The second threatened to set him on his knees.

But the trainer had been right, he still felt his strength within him.

Doctore gave him an instant to recover, prayed for Mira to come quick, and cracked the whip a third time. At last, Mira was seen, and the fourth slash timed the guard's death.

There was no fifth.

Spartacus gave the order. "Now!"

Taken from the back, the guards on the square were soon dead, and before Batiatus' staggered eyes, all gladiators safe seven already rushing inside the house, ran to take their weapons. One look at Spartacus explained everything. He knew. He had found out.

Cursing, he ran inside with the guards. But the domus was no longer safe. Batiatus started to run towards their room, barking orders to his men, and taking a sword off one of the guards.

"Kill those fucking slaves, leave no one alive!"

The corridor towards their room seemed eternal, yet Batiatus made the distance without threats. Cries of falling men filled the way, echoing on the walls. Soon he saw the entrance. He could see no one had reached it, and hopefully Lucretia was asleep.

Batiatus prayed. He prayed to see her live, yet if she were to die, he prayed for her to die asleep, and for the Gods to preserve her far from the Underworld.

Suddenly, a gladiator blocked his path, wielding a sword and ready to kill.

Until a hand stopped him. The owner of the eighth sword, the one left on the sand for him, was sternly blocking the other gladiator's arm. "Not this man," he told him.

The man retreated, and headed for Lucretia's room. Spartacus saw the panic in Batiatus' face and understood. Duro, hold. Agron's brother obeyed. Leave that room too. Seek only for the guards.

Duro obeyed and soon Spartacus and Batiatus were alone. Both men stood, keeping their distance.

"She is in there, is she not? Your wife."

"Leave her out of this," threatened Batiatus.

"As you did with mine?," asked Spartacus.

The lanista remained silent, yet seething inside.

"You love her."

It was not a question.

"Is she your beating heart? Is she the hope that moves your life?"

"I will beg if I must."

"You would beg?"

Uncertain of whether there was amusement or disbelief, Batiatus nodded. He was no match against the man he, himself, had shaped. Fucking Thracian. Fucking Batiatus for not having listened to her. Lucretia had been right from the beginning. He had become their curse. "Yes. I would beg to a slave."

"I am not such thing. I am a man."

Batiatus prayed one more time. That Lucretia did not see him fall.

A sword was dropped, an arm crossed the air and the floor was stained.

A body fell limp on a crimson pool. The head followed.

_**OOO**_

When she opened her eyes she wondered how long had she slept. She felt weak, and the throbbing on her belly had increased. She could feel the pressure of the stitches from the inside.

The fever had not receded, and hot, Lucretia uncovered herself, glad when she noticed the presence of a slave standing by the door.

"Bring me water," she commanded. Soon she realized the slave had not moved. Annoyed, she spoke again. "I said water, slave. Are my commands not heard now?"

She received an answer. One that froze her heart.

"You do not command anymore. _Domina_."

Her breath caught, and her brusque movement to sit up broke the stitches, hitting her with a sudden burst of pain as the wound began to pour blood and something else.

Spartacus saw the growing stain. "You opened your wound."

Calmly, he stepped around, grabbing a piece of cloth. Lucretia said nothing, but her eyes could not part from the blade, and the blood dripping down from it. Spartacus tossed the cloth towards her.

"Press the wound with it. It will help stop the bleeding."

Her pride had come back to her the moment she saw the Thracian standing there. Her face reflected the defiance and hatred reborn. It did not make effect on him, yet it did not go unnoticed.

"He loved you," he said, his words, he knew, confirming her fear. "You were always by his side, yet I never saw you display that love in front of us. No. You look at us with disgust, unworthy of witnessing you Romans' emotions."

Finally Lucretia found her voice. "You are a slave."

"Am I?," he asked.

"Get this over with and leave."

Spartacus snorted, part in amusement, part in disgust. "You would die?"

"I have nothing left to live. Nothing."

"And yet you call me the slave," he said. But when the free woman is separated from the man under whose shadow she lives, when the chained men and women who serve her are gone, she claims her life is over. And yet I am the slave?"

Spartacus walked towards her, close enough to kneel on the bed, making her jerk backwards in fear. Ignoring this, he took the cloth she had refused to use and placed it in her hand, pressing it on her belly strongly.

All the unfairness surrounding that wound, came to his mind, thinking of him; of Sura; of Crixus and Naevia; of Mira. Tears he had thought long gone reached the back of his eyes. Hardly containing them, he spoke again.

"You look at us with hatred because you are ashamed of desiring a slave. You take a child's life because your husband will not have it." He repeated his words. "And still you think we are the slaves of Rome?"

Shaking his head he moved back and stood up. "There are fates worse than death. Those of slaves. The house of Batiatus shelters one under its roof."

"You will die. Sooner than you think. And this madness will be for nothing. Nothing!," she spoke, voice filled with contempt.

"I will meet my end when it comes. Yet it will not be for nothing. The name you gave me, I am not letting go. Yours will soon fade from memory. But Rome will learn the name of Spartacus beyond the arena. And be certain it will reach the core of your precious Republic." He shared one last look at her. He almost fell pity. "If you stop the bleeding and treat the wound you may live. Your guards are dead, and no man or woman under your service will remain inside this house."

_**OOO**_

Spartacus was the last to reach the gates. Slowly, he walked across the sand one last time. He nodded to the men left behind to make certain that Crixus would be tended and Naevia protected, as he had promised. The medicus, a slave he remembered by his side the same day they reached Capua, walked towards the room where the Gaul rested. Spartacus knew he would see them soon.

Then, it happened again.

It started to rain. Spartacus smiled, remembering a woman smiling smugly at him.

The same woman standing now by the gate, looking up to the sky, waiting for him. "I thought you might need a friend."

Before he could respond, they both heard a cry, bearing rage and anguish. Spartacus and Mira looked. "Is it wise to let her live?"

"She does not even know if she is alive," he said. "Let us go."

Mira then handed him a cloak. "For your back. To protect your wounds while we walk."

Spartacus fought his first instinct and accepted the cloth. "Gratitude." And they both crossed the gates, as a group of seventy people led by Doctore had moments before.

"It is raining," he finally said.

"And we are free, legend."

**fin**

_**OOOOO**_

**Author's note**: more specifically, xenokattz's help came in assessing the probable outcome of Lucretia's wound (infection) and healing process (if her fever is controlled and the infection purged (by topical medicines, draining pus or eating foods with antibacterial qualities... –in this case I chose garlic and oregano–)) and the reasons why the baby would die from the blood loss (When injured, the body will shut down as many nonessential functions as possible to concentrate on healing as well as maintaining the important stuff (breathing, heart pumping, brain). As far as the body's concerned, a fetus sucks up energy and nutrients that should be used for healing). Thankies again.

The Jews mentioned through Ashur, the Syrian. Syria was not annexed until later in history, so I'm not sure as to how Ashur entered the ludus as a slave (I made up a theory, but this will remain in off-fic land). Anyway, as well as I have happily ignored Barca's geochronological mishap, I'm doing the same with Ashur, who, through his family's origin (I'm prone to place them near Iudaea), knew the religion.

Hope you all enjoyed it, and thanks for the feedback.


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